
















■ ' 1 
















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X &torp of 

German lobe 


BY 

MAX MULLER 

i \ 

Translated from the German, by 

GEORGE P. UPTON 


■Ncut Illuatralfb iEbilimt 


With Pictures and Decorations by 

Margaret 

and 

Helen Maitland Armstrong 


Chicago 

A. (£. iHrOIlunj $c (Ba. 

1906 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

OCT 24 1906 

^ Copyright Entry 
CLASS A XXc., No. 

7 U 6/3 ^ 

COPY B. 



Copyright 

JANSEN, McCLUKG & CO. 
1874 

A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
1902-1906 


This new illustrated edition is 
published October 20 , iqob , and 
is the 33d printing of the story. 



Translator’s Preface . 
Author’s Preface . 
First Memory . 
Second Memory 
Third Memory . 
Fourth Memory 
Fifth Memory . 

Sixth Memory 
Seventh Memory 
Last Memory 


. 1 1 

19 

27 

• 37 
47 

• 59 

79 
. 89 

1 17 






























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The Picture of an Unknown . . Frontispiece 

A New World Disclosed Itself to Me . 19 

I Ran to the Beautiful Lady . 27 

“What is Thine is Mine” ... 37 

“We Are Old Friends” .... 47 

I Took the Book and Read ... 59 

Not to See Her Again .... 79 

Thou Dost Not Belong To Us . . 89 

The Dead Thoughts Rise Again . . .117 
























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HE translation of any 
work is at best a 
difficult task, and 
must inevitably be 
prejudicial to what- 
ever of beauty the 
original possesses. 
When the principal 
charm of the origi- 
nal lies in its elegant 
simplicity, as in 
the case of the 
“ Deutsche Liebe,” 
the difficulty is still 
further enhanced. 
The translator has sought to reproduce the simple 
German in equally simple English, even at the risk 
of transferring German idioms into the English text. 

The story speaks for itself. Without plot, inci- 
dents, or situations, it is nevertheless dramatically con- 
structed, unflagging in interest, abounding in beauty, 
grace, and pathos, and filled with the tenderest feel- 
ing of sympathy, which will go straight to the heart 
of every lover of the ideal in the world of humanity, 




12 


TRANSLATOR' S PREFACE 


and every worshiper in the world of nature. Its 
brief essays upon theology, literature, and social habits, 
contained in the dialogues between the hero and the 
heroine, will commend themselves to the thoughtful 
reader by their clearness and beauty of statement, as 
well as by their freedom from prejudice. “Deutsche 
Liebe” is a poem in prose, whose setting is all the 
more beautiful and tender, in that it is freed from the 
bondage of metre, and has been the unacknowledged 
source of many a poet’s most striking utterances. 

As such, the translator gives it to the public, con- 
fident that it will find ready acceptance among those 
who cherish the ideal, and a tender welcome by 
every lover of humanity. 

The translator desires to make acknowledgments 
to J. J. Lalor, Esq., late of the Chicago Tribune , for 
his hearty co-operation in the progress of the work, 
and many valuable suggestions ; to Professor Feuling, 
the eminent philologist of the University of Wis- 
consin, for his literal version of the extracts from the 
“ Deutsche Theologie,” which preserve the quaint- 
ness of the original; and to Mrs. F. M. Brown for 
her metrical version of Goethe’s almost untranslatable 
lines, “Ueber alien Gipfeln, ist Ruh,” which form 
the key-note of the beautiful harmony in the char- 
acter of the heroine. 


G. P. U. 


I 



/ 


I 






































t 


* 



I 



HO has not, at some 
period of his life, 
seated himself at a 
writing-table, where 
only a short time 
before another sat, 
who now rests in 
the grave ? Who has 
not opened the 
drawers, which for 
long years have hid- 
den the secrets of a 
heart now buried in 
the holy peace of 
the churchyard? 
Here lie the letters which were so precious to him, the 
beloved one; here the pictures, ribbons, and books with 
marks on every leaf. Who can now read and interpret 
them ? Who can gather again the withered and scat- 
tered leaves of this rose, and vivify them with fresh 
perfume? The flames in which the Greeks enveloped 
the bodies of the departed for the purpose of destruc- 
tion, the flames into which the ancients cast every- 
thing once dearest to the living, are now the securest 



/ 6 AUTHOR' S PREFACE 

repository for these relics. With trembling fear the 
surviving friend reads the leaves no eye has ever seen, 
save those now so firmly closed, and if, after a glance, 
too hasty even to read them, he is convinced these 
letters and leaves contain nothing which men deem 
important, he throws them quickly upon the glowing 
coals — a flash, and they are gone. 

From such flames the following leaves have been 
saved. They were at first intended only for the 
friends of the deceased, yet they have found friends 
even among strangers, and since it is so to be, may 
wander anew in distant lands. Gladly would the 
compiler have furnished more, but the leaves are too 
much scattered and mutilated to be rearranged and 
given complete. 








t 









HILDHOOD has its 
secrets and its mys- 
teries; but who can 
tell or who can ex- 
plain them? We 
have all roamed 
through this silent 
wonder-wood — we 
have all once opened 
our eyes in blissful 
astonishment, as the 
beautiful reality of 
life overflowed our 
souls. We know 
not where or who 
we were — the whole world was ours and we were 
the whole world's. That was an infinite life — 
without beginning and without end, without rest 
and without pain. In the heart, it was as clear as 
the spring heavens, fresh as the violet’s perfume — 
hushed and holy as a Sabbath morning. 

What disturbs this God’s-peace of the child ? How 
can this unconscious and innocent existence ever 
cease? What dissipates the rapture of this individu- 



20 


MEMORIES 


ality and universality, and suddenly leaves us solitary 
and alone in a clouded life? 

Say not, with serious face, it is sin ! Can even a 
child sin? Say rather, we know not, and must only 
resign ourselves to it. 

Is it sin which makes the bud a blossom, and the 
blossom fruit, and the fruit dust ? 

Is it sin which makes the worm a chrysalis, and 
the chrysalis a butterfly, and the butterfly dust? 

And is it sin which makes the child a man, and 
the man a gray-haired man, and the gray-haired man 
dust? And what is dust? 

Say rather, we know not, and must only resign 
ourselves to it. 

Yet it is so beautiful, recalling the spring-time of 
life, to look back and remember one’s self. Yes, even 
in the sultry summer, in the melancholy autumn, and 
in the cold winter of life, there is here and there a 
spring day, and the heart says, “I feel like spring.” 
Such a day is this — and so I lay me down upon the 
soft moss of the fragrant woods, and stretch out my 
weary limbs, and look up, through the green foliage, 
into the boundless blue, and think how it used to be 
in that childhood. 

Then all seems forgotten. The first pages of 
memory are like the old family Bible. The first 
leaves are wholly faded and somewhat soiled with 
handling. But when we turn further, and come to 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 21 

the chapters where Adam and Eve were banished 
from Paradise, then all begins to grow clear and 
legible. Now, if we could only find the title-page 
with the imprint and date — but that is irrevocably 
lost, and in their place we find only the clear tran- 
script — our baptismal certificate — bearing witness 
when we were born, the names of our parents and 
godparents, and that we were not issued sine loco et 
anno. 

But oh, this beginning! Would there were none, 
since with the beginning all thought and memories 
alike cease. When we thus dream back into child- 
hood, and from childhood into infinity, this bad be- 
ginning continually flies farther away. The thoughts 
pursue it and never overtake it; just as a child seeks 
the spot where the blue sky touches the earth, and 
runs and runs, while the sky always runs before it, 
yet still touches the earth — but the child grows 
weary and never reaches the spot. 

But even since we were once there — wherever it 
may be where we had a beginning — what do we know 
now? For memory shakes itself like a spaniel, just 
come out of the waves, while the water runs in his 
eyes and he looks very strangely. 

I believe I can even yet remember when I saw 
the stars for the first time. They may have seen me 
often before, but one evening it seemed as if it were 
cold. Although I lay in my mother’s lap, I shivered 


22 


MEMORIES 


and was chilly, or I was frightened. In short, some- 
thing came over me which reminded me of my little 
Ego in no ordinary manner. Then my mother 
showed me the bright stars, and I wondered at them, 
and thought that she had made them very beauti- 
fully. Then I felt warm again, and could sleep well. 

Furthermore, I remember how I once lay in the 
grass, and everything about me tossed and nodded, 
hummed and buzzed. Then there came a great 
swarm of little myriad-footed, winged creatures, 
which lit upon my forehead and eyes and said, “Good 
day.” Immediately my eyes smarted, and I cried to 
my mother, and she said, “ Poor little one, how the 
gnats have stung him! ” I could not open my eyes 
or see the blue sky any longer, but my mother had a 
bunch of fresh violets in her hand, and it seemed as 
if a dark-blue, fresh, spicy perfume were wafted 
through my senses. Even now, whenever I see the 
first violets, I remember this, and it seems to me that 
I must close my eyes so that the old dark-blue heaven 
of that day may again rise over my soul. 

Still further do I remember, how, at another time, 
a new world disclosed itself to me — more beautiful 
than the star-world or the violet perfume. It was on 
an Easter morning, and my mother had dressed me 
early. Before the window stood our old church. It 
was not beautiful, but still it had a lofty roof and 
tower, and on the tower a golden cross, and it appeared 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 23 

very much older and grayer than the other buildings. 
I wondered who lived in it, and once I looked in 
through the iron-grated door. It was entirely empty, 
cold, and dismal. There was not even one soul in the 
whole building, and after that I always shuddered 
when I passed the door. But on this Easter morning 
it had rained early, and when the sun came out in its 
full splendor, the old church with the gray sloping 
roof, the high windows, and the tower with the golden 
cross, glistened with a wondrous shimmer. All at 
once the light which streamed through the lofty win- 
dows began to move and glisten. It was so intensely 
bright that one could have looked within, and as I 
closed my eyes the light entered my soul, and therein 
everything seemed to shed brilliancy and perfume, to 
sing and to ring. It seemed to me a new life had 
commenced in myself and that I was another being, 
and when I asked my mother what it meant, she 
replied it was an Easter song they were singing in the 
church. What bright, holy song it was, which at 
that time surged through my soul, I have never been 
able to discover. It must have been an old church 
hymn, like those which many a time stirred the rug- 
ged soul of our Luther. I never heard it again; 
but many a time even now when I hear an adagio of 
Beethoven, or a psalm of Marcellus, or a chorus of 
Handel, or a simple song in the Scotch Highlands 
or the Tyrol, it seems to me as if the lofty church 


MEMORIES 


2 4 

windows again glistened, and the organ tones once 
more surged through my soul, and a new world re- 
vealed itself, more beautiful than the starry heavens 
and the violet perfume. 

These things I remember in my earliest child- 
hood, and intermingled with them are my dear 
mother’s looks, the calm earnest gaze of my father, 
gardens and vine leaves, and soft green turf, and 
a very old and quaint picture-book; and this is 
all I can recall of the first scattered leaves of my 
childhood. 

Afterwards it grows brighter and clearer. Names 
and faces appear — not only father and mother, but 
brothers and sisters, friends and teachers, and a mul- 
titude of strange people. Ah, yes, of these strange 
people there is so much recorded in memory ! 








a 


V 















OT far from our 
house, and opposite 
the old church 
with the golden 
cross, stood a large 
building, even 
larger than the 
church, and having 
many towers. They 
looked exceedingly 
gray and old, and 
had no golden cross; 
but stone eagles 
tipped the sum- 
mits, and a great 
white and blue banner fluttered from the highest 
tower, directly over the lofty doorway at the top 
of the steps, where, on either side, two mounted 
soldiers stood sentinels. The building had many 
windows, and behind the windows you could dis- 
tinguish red silk curtains with golden tassels. Old 
lindens encircled the grounds, which in summer 
overshadowed the gray masonry with their green 
leaves and bestrewed the turf with their fragrant 



28 


MEMORIES 


white blossoms. I had often looked in there, 
and at evening when the lindens exhaled their per- 
fumes, and the windows were illuminated, I saw 
many figures pass and repass like shadows. Music 
swept down from on high, and carriages drove 
up, from which ladies and gentlemen alighted and 
ascended the stairs. They all looked so beautiful and 
good ! The gentlemen had stars upon their breasts, 
and the ladies wore fresh flowers in their hair ; and 
I often thought. Why do I not go there too ? 

One day my father took me by the hand and 
said: “We are going to the castle; but you must be 
very polite if the Princess speaks to you, and kiss 
her hand.” 

I was about six years of age, and as delighted as 
only one can be at six years of age. I had already 
indulged in many quiet fancies about the shadows 
which I had seen evenings through the lighted win- 
dows, and had heard many good things at home of 
the beneficence of the Prince and Princess: how 
gracious they were; how much help and consolation 
they brought to the poor and sick; and that they 
had been chosen by the grace of God to protect the 
good and punish the bad. I had long pictured to my- 
self what transpired in the castle, so that the Prince 
and Princess were already old acquaintances whom I 
knew as well as my nutcrackers and leaden soldiers. 

My heart beat quickly as I ascended the high 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE '29 

stairs with my father, and just as he was telling me 
I must call the Princess “ Highness, ” and Prince 
“Serene Highness/’ the folding door opened and I 
saw before me a tall figure with brilliantly piercing 
eyes. She seemed to advance and stretch out her 
hand to me. There was an expression on her coun- 
tenance which I had long known, and a heavenly 
smile played about her cheeks. I could restrain my- 
self no longer, and while my father stood at the 
door bowing very low — I knew not why — my heart 
sprang into my throat. I ran to the beautiful lady, 
threw my arms round her neck, and kissed her as I 
would my mother. The beautiful majestic lady 
willingly submitted, stroked my hair, and smiled; 
but my father took my hand, led me away, and said 
I was very rude, and that he should never take me 
there again. I grew utterly bewildered. The blood 
mounted to my cheeks, for I felt that my father had 
been unjust to me. I looked at the Princess as if she 
ought to shield me, but upon her face was only an 
expression of mild earnestness. Then I looked round 
upon the ladies and gentlemen assembled in the room, 
believing that they would come to my defense. But 
as I looked, I saw that they were laughing. Then 
the tears sprang into my eyes, and out of the door, 
down the stairs, and past the lindens in the castle 
yard I rushed home, where I threw myself into my 
mother’s arms and sobbed and wept. 


30 


MEMORIES 


“What has happened to you?” said she. 

“Oh, mother!” I cried; “ I was at the Princess’, 
and she was such a good and beautiful woman, just 
like you, dear mother, that I had to throw my arms 
round her neck and kiss her.” 

“Ah!” said my mother; “you should not have 
done that, for they are strangers and high dignitaries.” 

“And what, then, are strangers?” said I. “May 
I not love all people who look upon me with affec- 
tionate and friendly eyes?” 

“You can love them, my son,” replied my 
mother, “but you should not show it.” 

“Is it, then, something wrong for me to love 
people?” said I. “Why cannot I show it?” 

“Well, perhaps you are right,” said she, “but 
you must do as your father says, and when you are 
older you will understand why you cannot embrace 
every woman who regards you with affectionate and 
friendly eyes.” 

That was a sad day. Father came home, agreed 
I had been very uncivil. At night my mother put 
me to bed, and I prayed, but I could not sleep, and 
kept wondering what these strange people were 
whom one must not love. 

Thou poor human heart! So soon in the spring 
are thy leaves broken and the feathers torn from the 
wings! When the spring- red of life opens the hid- 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 3 i 

den calyx of the soul, it perfumes our whole being 
with love. We learn to stand and to walk, to speak 
and to read, but no one teaches us love. It is in- 
herent in us, like life, they say, and is the very deep- 
est foundation of our existence. As the heavenly 
bodies incline to and attract each other, and will 
always cling together by the everlasting law of gravi- 
tation, so heavenly souls incline to and attract each 
other, and will always cling together by the everlast- 
ing law of love. A flower cannot blossom with- 
out sunshine, and man cannot live without love. 
Would not the child’s heart break in despair when 
the first cold storm of the world sweeps over it, if the 
warm sunlight of love from the eyes of mother and 
father did not shine upon him like the soft reflection 
of divine light and love? The ardent yearning 
which then awakes in a child is the purest and deep- 
est love. It is the love which embraces the whole 
world, which shines resplendent wherever the eyes 
of men beam upon it, which exults wherever it hears 
the human voice. It is the old, immeasurable love, 
a deep well which no plummet has ever sounded ; a 
fountain of perennial richness. Whoever knows it 
also knows that in love there is no More and no 
Less; but that he who loves can only love with the 
whole heart and with the whole soul, with all his 
strength and with all his will. 

But alas ! how little remains of this love by the 


MEMORIES 


32 

time we have finished one-half of our life-journey ! 
Soon the child learns that there are strangers, and 
ceases to be a child. The spring of love becomes 
hidden and soon filled up. Our eyes gleam no more, 
and heavy hearted we pass one another in the bus- 
tling streets. We scarcely greet each other, for we 
know how sharply it cuts the soul when a greeting 
remains unanswered, and how sad it is to be sun- 
dered from those whom we have once greeted, and 
whose hands we have clasped. The wings of the soul 
lose their plumes; the leaves of the flower fast fall 
off and wither; and of this fountain of love there 
remain but a few drops. We still call these few 
drops love, but it is no longer the clear, fresh, all - 
abounding child-love. It is love with anxiety and 
trouble, a consuming flame, a burning passion ; love 
which wastes itself like raindrops upon the hot sand ; 
love which is a longing, not a sacrifice; love which 
says, “Wilt thou be mine? ,, not love which says, 
“I must be thine.” It is a most selfish, vacillating 
love. And this is the love which poets sing and in 
which young men and maidens believe; a fire which 
burns up and down, yet does not warm, and leaves 
nothing behind but smoke and ashes. All of us 
at some period of life have believed that these rockets 
of sunbeams were everlasting love, but the brighter 
the glitter the darker the night which follows. 

And then when all around grows dark, when we 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 


33 

feel utterly alone, when all men right and left pass 
us by and know us not, a forgotten feeling rises in 
the breast. We know not what it is, for it is neither 
love nor friendship. You feel like crying to him 
who passes you so cold and strange : “ Dost thou not 
know me?” Then one realizes that man is nearer to 
man than brother to brother, father to son, or friend 
to friend. How an old, holy saying rings through 
our souls, that strangers are nearest to us. Why must 
we pass them in silence? We know not, but must 
resign ourselves to it. When two trains are rushing 
by upon the iron rails, and thou seest a well-known 
eye that would recognize thee, stretch out thy hand 
and try to grasp the hand of a friend, and perhaps 
thou wilt understand why man passes man in silence 
here below. 

An old sage says: “ I saw the fragments of a 
wrecked boat floating on the sea. Only a few meet 
and hold together a long time. Then comes a storm 
and drives them east and west, and here below they 
will never meet again. So it is with mankind. Yet 
no one has seen the great shipwreck.” 



















9 




I 





SSfer^ 

HE clouds in the sky 
of childhood do not 
last long, and disap- 
pear after a short, 
warm tear-rain. I 
was shortly again at 
the castle, and the 
Princess gave me 
her hand to kiss, 
and then brought 
her children, the 
young princes and 
princesses, and we 
played together as 
if we had known 
each other for years. Those were happy days, when, 
after school — for I was now attending school — 1 
could go to the castle and play. We had everything 
the heart could wish. I found playthings there 
which my mother had shown me in the shop 
windows, and which were so dear, she told me, 
that poor people could live a whole week on what 
they cost. When I begged the Princess’ permission 
to take them home and show them to my mother. 



j8 MEMORIES 

she was perfectly willing. I could turn over and 
over and look for hours at a time at beautiful 
picture-books, which I had seen in the book-stores 
with my father, but which were made only for 
very good children. Everything which belonged 
to the young princes belonged also to me — so I 
thought, at least. Furthermore, I was not only 
allowed to carry away what I wished, but I often 
gave away the playthings to other children. In 
short, I was a young Communist, in the full sense 
of the term. I remember at one time the Princess 
had a golden snake which coiled itself around her 
arm as if it were alive, and she gave it to us for 
a plaything. As I was going home I put the snake 
on my arm, and thought I would give my mother a 
real fright with it. On the way, however, I met 
a woman who noticed the snake and begged me to 
show it to her; and then she said if she could only 
keep the golden snake she could release her husband 
from prison with it. Naturally I did not stop to 
think for a minute, but ran away and left the 
woman alone with the golden serpent-bracelet. The 
next day there was much excitement. The poor 
woman was brought to the castle, and the people said 
she had stolen it. Thereupon I grew very angry 
and explained with holy zeal that I had given her 
the bracelet, and that I would not take it back 
again. What further occurred I know not, but I 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 39 

remember that after that time I showed the Princess 
everything I took home with me. 

It was a long time before my conceptions of 
Meum and Tuum were fully settled, and at a very 
late period they were at times confused, just as it 
was a long time before I could distinguish between 
the blue and red colors. The last time I remem- 
ber my friends laughing at me on this account was 
when my mother gave me some money to buy 
apples. She gave me a groschen. The apples cost 
only a sechser, and when I gave the woman the 
groschen, she said, very sadly, as it seemed to me, 
that she had sold nothing the whole livelong 
day and could not give me back a sechser. She 
wished I would buy a groschen’s worth. Then it 
occurred to me that I also had a sechser in my 
pocket, and thoroughly delighted that I had solved 
the difficult problem, I gave it to the woman and 
said: “Now you can give me back a sechser.” She 
understood me so little, however, that she gave me 
back the groschen and kept the sechser. 

At this time, while I was making almost daily 
visits to the young princes at the castle, both to 
play as well as to study French with them, another 
image comes up in my memory. It was the daugh- 
ter of the Princess, the Countess Marie. The mother 
died shortly after the birth of the child, and the Prince 
subsequently married a second time. I know not 


MEMORIES 


40 

when I saw her for the first time. She emerges 
from the darkness of memory slowly and gradu- 
ally — at first like an airy shadow which grows more 
and more distinct as it approaches nearer and nearer, 
at last standing before my soul like the moon, 
which on some stormy night throws back the 
cloud veils from across its face. She was always 
sick and suffering and silent, and I never saw her 
except reclining upon her couch, upon which two 
servants brought her into the room and carried her 
out again when she was tired. There she lay in 
her flowing white drapery, with her hands gener- 
ally folded. Her face was so pale and yet so mild, 
and her eyes so deep and unfathomable, that I often 
stood before her lost in thought and looked upon her 
and asked myself if she was not one of the “ strange 
people” also. Many a time she placed her hand 
upon my head, and then it seemed to me that a thrill 
ran through all my limbs and that I could not move 
or speak, but must forever gaze into her deep, 
unfathomable eyes. She conversed very little with 
us, but watched our sports, and when at times we 
grew very noisy and quarrelsome she did not com- 
plain, but held her white hands over her brow and 
closed her eyes as if sleeping. But there were days 
when she said she felt better, and on such days she 
sat up on her couch, conversed with us, and told 
us curious stories. I do not know how old she was 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 41 

at that time. She was so helpless that she seemed 
like a child, and yet was so serious and silent that 
she could not have been one. When people alluded 
to her they involuntarily spoke gently and softly. They 
called her “the angel,” and I never heard anything 
said of her that was not good and lovely. Often when 
I saw her lying so silent and helpless, and thought 
that she would never walk again in life, that there 
was for her neither work nor joy, that they would 
carry her here and there upon her couch until they 
laid her upon her eternal bed of rest, I asked myself 
why she had been sent into this world, when she 
could have rested so gently on the bosom of the 
angels, and they could have borne her through the 
air on their white wings, as I had seen in some sa- 
cred pictures. Again I felt as if I must take a part 
of her burden, so that she need not carry it alone, but 
we with her. I could not tell her all this, for I 
knew it was not proper. I had an indefinable feel- 
ing. It was not a desire to embrace her. No one 
could have done that, for it would have wronged her. 
It seemed to me as if I could pray from the very 
bottom of my heart that she might be released from 
her burden. 

One warm spring day she was brought into our 
room. She looked exceedingly pale; but her eyes 
were deeper and brighter than ever, and she sat upon 
her couch and called us to her. “ It is my birthday,” 


MEMORIES 


42 

said she, “and I was confirmed early this morning. 
Now it is possible/’ she continued as she looked upon 
her father with a smile, “ that God may soon call 
me to him, although I would gladly remain with 
you much longer. But if I am to leave you, I desire 
that you should not wholly forget me; and there- 
fore I have brought a ring for each of you, which 
you must now place upon the forefinger. As you 
grow older you can continue to change it until it fits 
the little finger; but you must wear it for your life- 
time.” 

With these words she took the five rings she wore 
upon her fingers, and drew them off, one after the 
other, with a look so sad and yet so affectionate, that 
I pressed my eyes closely to keep from weeping. 
She gave the first ring to her eldest brother, and 
kissed him, the second and third to the two princesses, 
and the fourth to the youngest prince, and kissed 
them all as she gave them the rings. I stood near 
by, and looking fixedly at her white hand, saw that 
she still had a ring upon her finger; but she leaned 
back and appeared wearied. My eyes met hers, and 
as the eyes of a child speak so loudly, she must have 
easily known my thoughts. I would rather not have 
had the last ring, for I felt that I was a stranger; 
that I did not belong to her, and that she was not 
as affectionate to me as to her brothers and sisters. 
Then came a sharp pain in my breast as if a vein had 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 43 

burst or a nerve had been severed, and I knew not 
which way to turn to conceal my anguish. 

She soon raised herself again, placed her hand 
upon my forehead, and looked down into my heart so 
deeply that I felt I had not a thought invisible to 
her. She slowly drew the last ring from her finger, 
gave it to me, and said : “ I intended to have taken 
this with me when I went from you, but it is better 
you should wear it, and think of me when I am no 
longer with you. Read the words engraved upon 
the ring, ‘As God wills/ You have a passionate 
heart, easily moved. May life subdue but not harden 
it.” Then she kissed me as she had her brothers, 
and gave me the ring. 

All my feelings I do not truly know. I had then 
grown up to boyhood, and the mild beauty of the 
suffering angel could not linger in my young heart 
without alluring it. I loved her as only a boy can 
love, and boys love with an intensity and truth and 
purity which few preserve in their youth and man- 
hood; but I believed she belonged to the “strange 
people” to whom you are not allowed to speak of 
love. I scarcely understood the earnest words she 
spoke to me. I only felt that her soul was as near 
to mine as one human soul can be to another. All 
bitterness was gone from my heart. I felt myself no 
longer alone, no longer a stranger, no longer shut out. 
I was by her, with her, and in her. I thought it 


— 






MEMORIES 


might be a sacrifice for her to give me the ring, and 
that she might have preferred to take it to the grave 
with her, and a feeling arose in my soul which over- 
shadowed all other feelings, and I said with quivering 
“Thou must keep the ring if thou dost not 
wish to give it to me, for what is thine is mine.” 
She looked at me a moment surprised and thought- 
fully. Then she took the ring, placed it on her 
finger, kissed me once more on the forehead, and 
said gently to me: “Thou knowest not what thou 
sayest. Learn to understand thyself. Then shalt 
thou be happy and make many others happy.” 





















0 





WrfJ? 



VERY life has its 
years in which one 
progresses as on a 
tedious and dusty 
street of poplars, 
without caring to 
know where he is. 
Of these years 
naught remains in 
memory but the sad 
feeling that we have 
advanced and only 
grown older. While 
the river of life 
glides smoothly 
along, it remains the same river; only the landscape 
on either bank seems to change. But then come 
the cataracts of life. They are firmly fixed in mem- 
ory, and even when we are past them and far away, 
and draw nearer and nearer to the silent sea of eter- 
nity, even then it seems as if we heard from afar 
their rush and roar. We feel that the life force which 
yet remains and impels us onward still has its source 
and supply from those cataracts. 




4.8 


MEMORIES 


School time was ended, the first fleeting years of 
university life were over, and many beautiful life 
dreams were over also. But one of them still re- 
mained : Faith in God and man. Otherwise life 
would have been circumscribed within one’s narrow 
brain. Instead of that, a nobler consecration had 
preserved all, and even the painful and incomprehen- 
sible events of life became a proof to me of the 
omnipresence of the divine in the earthly. “The 
least important thing does not happen except as God 
wills it.” This was the brief life wisdom I had 
accumulated. 

During the summer holidays I returned to my little 
native city. What joy in these meetings again ! No 
one has explained it, but in this seeing and finding 
again, and in these self-memories, lie the real secrets 
of all joy and pleasure. What we see, hear, or taste for 
the first time may be beautiful, grand, and agreeable, 
but it is too new. It overpowers, but gives no repose, 
and the fatigue of enjoying is greater than the enjoy- 
ment itself. To hear again, years afterward, an old 
melody, every note of which we supposed we had 
forgotten, and yet to recognize it as an old acquaint- 
ance; or after the lapse of many years to stand 
once more before the Sistine Madonna at Dresden, 
and experience afresh all the emotions which the in- 
finite look of the child aroused in us for years; or to 
smell a flower or taste a dish again which we have 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 49 

not thought of since childhood — all these produce 
such an intense charm that we do not know which we 
enjoy most, the actual pleasure or the old memory. 
So when we return again, after long absence, to our 
birthplace, the soul floats unconsciously in a sea of 
memories, and the dancing waves dreamily toss them- 
selves upon the shores of time, long passed. The 
belfry clock strikes, and we fear we shall be late to 
school, and recovering from this fear feel relieved 
that our anxiety is over. The same dog runs along 
the street on whose account we used to go far out of 
our way. Here sits the old huckster whose apples 
often led us into temptation, and even now we fancy 
they must taste better than all other apples in the 
world, notwithstanding the dust on them. There, 
one has torn down a house and built a new one. 
Here, the old music-teacher lived. He is dead — and 
yet how beautiful it seemed as we stood and listened 
on summer evenings under the window while the 
True Soul, when the hours of the day were over, 
indulged in his own enjoyment and played fantasies, 
like the roaring and hissing engine letting off the 
steam which had accumulated during the day! Here 
in this little leafy lane, which seemed at that time so 
much larger, as I was coming home late one evening, 
I met our neighbor’s beautiful daughter. At that time 
I had never ventured to look at or address her, but 
we schoolchildren often spoke of her and called her 


MEMORIES 


50 

“the Beautiful Maiden,” and whenever I saw her 
passing along the street at a distance I was so happy 
that I could only think of the time when I should 
meet her nearer. Here in this leafy walk which 
leads to the churchyard, I met her one evening 
and she took me by the arm, although we had never 
spoken together before, and asked me to go home 
with her. I believe neither of us spoke a word the 
whole way ; but I was so happy that even now, after 
all these years, I wish it were that evening, and 
that I could go home again, silently and blissfully, 
with “the Beautiful Maiden.” 

Thus one memory follows another until the waves 
dash together over our heads, and a deep sigh swells 
the breast, which warns us that we have forgotten to 
breathe in the midst of these pure thoughts. Then 
all at once the whole dream world vanishes, like 
uprisen ghosts at the crowing of the cock. 

As I passed by the old castle and the lindens, and 
saw the sentinels upon their horses, how many memo- 
ries awakened in my soul, and how everything had 
changed! Many years had flown since I was at the 
castle. The Princess was dead. The Prince had 
given up his rule and gone back to Italy, and the 
oldest prince, with whom I had grown up, was regent. 
His companions were young noblemen and officers, 
whose intercourse was congenial to him, and whose 
company in our early days had often estranged us. 


A STORE OF GERMAN LOVE 57 - 

Other circumstances combined to weaken our young 
friendship. Like every young man who perceives 
for the first time the lack of unity in the German 
folk-life, and the defects of German rule, I had 
caught up some phrases of the Liberal party, which 
sounded as strangely at court as unseemly expressions 
in an honest minister’s family. In short, it was many 
years since I had ascended those stairs, and yet a 
being dwelt in that castle whose name I had named 
almost daily, and who was almost constantly present 
in my memory. I had long dwelt upon the thought 
that I should never see her again in this life. She 
was transformed into an image which I felt neither 
did nor could exist in reality. She had become my 
good angel — my other self, to whom I talked instead 
of talking with myself. How she became so I could 
not explain to myself, for I scarcely knew her. Just 
as the eye sometimes pictures figures in the clouds, 
so I fancied my imagination had conjured up this 
sweet image in the heaven of my childhood, and a 
complete picture of fantasy developed itself out of the 
scarcely perceptible outlines of reality. My entire 
thought had involuntarily become a dialogue with 
her, and all that was good in me, all for which I 
struggled, all in which I believed, my entire better 
self, belonged to her. I gave it to her. I received 
it from her, from her my good angel. 

I had been at home but a few days, when I 


,f9i 





EMORIES 


received a letter one morning. It was written in 
English, and came from the Countess Marie. 

Bear Friend : I hear you are with us for a short time. 
We have not met for many years, and if it is agreeable to 
you, I should like to see an old friend again. You will find 
me alone this afternoon in the Swiss Cottage. 

Yours sincerely, Marie. 


I immediately replied, also in English, that I 
would call in the afternoon. 

The Swiss Cottage constituted a wing of the castle, 
which overlooked the garden, and could be reached 
without going through the castle yard. It was five 
o’clock when I passed through the garden and ap- 
proached the cottage. I repressed all emotion, and 
prepared myself for a formal meeting. I sought to 
quiet my good angel, and to assure her that this lady 
had nothing to do with her. And yet I felt very 
uneasy, and my good angel would not listen to coun- 
sel. Finally I took courage, murmuring something 
to myself about the masquerade of life, and rapped 
on the door which stood ajar. 

There was no one in the room except a lady 
whom I did not know, and who likewise spoke Eng- 
lish, and said the Countess would be present in a 
moment. She then left, and I was alone and had 
time to look about. 

The walls of the room were of rose chestnut, 
and over an openwork trellis a luxuriant broad- 




A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 53 

leaved ivy twined around the whole room. All the 
tables and chairs were of carved rose chestnut. The 
floor was of variegated woodwork. It gave me a 
curious sensation to see so much that was familiar in 
the room. Many articles from our old play-room 
in the castle were old friends, but the others were 
new, especially the pictures, and yet they were the 
same as those in my University room — the same por- 
traits of Beethoven, Handel, and Mendelssohn, as I had 
selected — hung over the grand piano. In one corner I 
saw the Venus di Milo, which I always regarded as the 
masterpiece of antiquity. On the table were volumes 
of Dante, Shakespeare, Tauler’s Sermons, the “Ger- 
man Theology,” Ruckert’s Poems, Tennyson and 
Burns, and Carlyle’s “Past and Present” — the very 
same books — all of which I had had but recently in 
my hands. I was growing thoughtful, but I repressed 
my thoughts, and was just standing before the portrait 
of the deceased Princess when the door opened, and 
the same two servants, whom I had so often seen in 
childhood, brought the Countess into the room upon 
her couch. 

What a vision! She spoke not a word, and her 
countenance was as placid as the sea until the ser- 
vants left the room. Then her eyes sought me — the 
old, deep, unfathomable eyes. Her expression grew 
more animated each instant. At last her whole face 
lit up, and she said: 




here was no masquerade — here was a soul which 
longed for another soul — here was a greeting like 
that between two friends who recognize each other 


by the glance of the eye, notwithstanding their dis- 
guises and dark masks. I seized the hand she held 
out to me, and replied : “ When we address an angel, 


And yet how singular is the influence of the 
forms and habits of life! How difficult it is to 
speak the language of nature even to the most con- 
genial souls! Our conversation halted, and both of 
us felt the embarrassment of the moment. I broke 
the silence, and spoke out my thoughts: “Men be- 
come accustomed to live from youth up as it were 
in a cage, and when they are once in the open air 
they dare not venture to use their wings, fearing, if 
they fly, that they may stumble against every thing.” 

“Yes,” replied she, “and that is very proper, and 
cannot well be otherwise. One often wishes that he 
could live like the birds, which fly in the woods and 
meet upon the branches, and sing together, without 
being presented to each other. But, my friend, even 
among the birds there are owls and sparrows, and in 






A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 55 

life it is well that one can pass them without know- 
ing them. It is sometimes with life as with poetry. 
As the real poet can express the Truest and most 
Beautiful, although fettered by metrical form, so 
man should know how to preserve freedom of 
thought and feeling notwithstanding the restraints 
of society/’ 

I could not help recalling the words of Platen : 
“That which proves itself everlasting under all cir- 
cumstances, told in the fetters of words, is the 
unfettered spirit.” 

“Yes,” said she, with a cordial but sweetly play- 
ful smile, “but I have a privilege which is at the 
same time my burden and loneliness. I often pity 
the young men and maidens, for they cannot have 
a friendship or an intimacy without their relatives or 
themselves pronouncing it love, or what they call 
love. They lose much on this account. The 
maiden knows not what slumbers in her soul, and 
what might be awakened by earnest conversation 
with a noble friend ; and the young man in turn would 
acquire so much knightly virtue if women were suf- 
fered to be the distant witnesses of the inner struggles 
of the spirit. It will not do, however, for immedi- 
ately love comes in play, or what they call love — the 
quick beating of the heart, the stormy billows of 
hope, the delight over a beautiful face, the sweet 
sentimentality, sometimes also prudent calculation 


MEMORIES 


56 

— in short, all that troubles the calm sea, which is 
the true picture of pure human love — ” 

She checked herself suddenly, and an expression 
of pain passed over her countenance. “ I dare not 
talk more to-day,” said she; “my physician will not 
allow it. I would like to hear one of Mendelssohn’s 
songs — that duet which my young friend used to play 
years ago. Is it not so?” 

I could not answer, for as she ceased speaking 
and gently folded her hands I saw upon her hand a 
ring. She wore it on her little finger — the ring 
which she had given me and I had given her. 
Thoughts came too fast for utterance, and I seated 
myself at the piano and played. When I had done I 
turned around and said: “Would one could only 
speak thus in tones without words!” 

“That is possible,” said she; “I understood it all. 
But I must not do anything more to-day, for every 
day I grow weaker. We must be better acquainted, 
and a poor sick recluse may certainly claim forbear- 
ance. We meet to-morrow evening at the same 
hour, shall we not?” 

I seized her hand and was about to kiss it, but she 
held my hand firmly, pressed it, and said: “It is 
better thus. Good by.” 













T would be difficult 
to describe my 
thoughts and emo- 
tions as I went 
home. The soul 


cannot at once 


translate itself per- 
fectly in words, and 
there are “ thoughts 
without words,” 
which in every man 
are the prelude of 
supreme joy and 
suffering. It was 
neither joy nor pain, 
only an indescribable bewilderment which I felt; 


thoughts flew through my innermost being like me- 
teors, which shoot from heaven towards earth, but 
are extinguished before they reach the goal. As we 
sometimes say in a dream, “ I am dreaming/’ so I 
said to myself, “Thou lives,t” — “it is she.” I tried 
again to reflect and calm myself, and said, “ She is a 
lovely vision — a very wonderful spirit.” At an- 
other time I pictured the delightful evenings I 






6o 


MEMORIES 


should pass during the holidays. But no, no, this 
cannot be. She is everything I sought, thought, 
hoped, and believed. Here was at last a human 
soul, as clear and fresh as a spring morning. I had 
seen at the first glance what she was and how she 
felt, and we had greeted and recognized one another. 
And my good angel in me, she answered me no more. 
She was gone, and I felt there was no place on earth 
where I should find her again. 

Now began a beautiful life, for I was with her 
every evening. We soon realized that we were in 
truth old acquaintances, and that we could only call 
each other Thou. It seemed also as if we had lived 
near and with one another always, for she manifested 
not an emotion that did not find its counterpart in 
my soul, and there was no thought which I uttered 
to which she did not nod friendly assent, as much 
as to say: “I thought so too.” I had previously, 
heard the greatest master of our time and his sister 
extemporize on the piano, and scarcely compre- 
hended how two persons could understand and feel 
themselves so perfectly and yet never, not even in a 
single note, disturb the harmony of their playing. 
Now it became intelligible to me. Yes, now I 
understood for the first time that my soul was not 
so poor and empty as it had seemed to me, and 
that it had been only the sun that was lacking to 
open all its germs and buds to the light. And yet 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 61 

what a sad and brief spring-time it was that our souls 
experienced! We forget in May that roses so soon 
wither, but here every evening reminded us that one 
leaf after another was falling to the ground. She felt 
it before I did, and alluded to it apparently without 
pain, and our interviews grew more earnest and sol- 
emn daily. 

One evening as I was about to leave, she said : “I 
did not think I should grow so old. When I gave 
you the ring on my confirmation day I thought I 
should have to take my departure from you all very 
soon. And yet I have lived so many years, and 
enjoyed so much beauty — and suffered so very much! 
But one forgets that! Now, while I feel that my 
departure is near, every hour, every minute, grows 
precious to me. Good night! Do not come too 
late to-morrow/’ 

One day as I went into her room, I met an Italian 
painter with her. She spoke Italian with him, and 
although he was evidently more artisan than artist, 
she addressed him with such amiability and modesty, 
with such respect even, one could not avoid recogniz- 
ing that nobility of soul which is the true nobility of 
birth. When the painter had taken his leave, she 
said to me: “I wish to show you a picture which 
will please you. The original is in the gallery at 
Paris. I read a description of it, and have had it 
copied by the Italian/’ She showed me the painting. 


62 


MEMORIES 


and waited my opinion. It was a picture of a man 
of middle age, in the old German costume. The 
expression was dreamy and resigned, and so character- 
istic that no one could doubt this man once lived. 
The whole tone of the picture in the foreground 
was dark and brownish; but in the background was 
a landscape, and on the horizon the first gleams of 
daybreak appeared. I could discover nothing special 
in the picture, and yet it produced a feeling of such 
satisfaction that one might have tarried to look at 
it for hours at a time. “There is nothing like a 
genuine human face,” said I; “Raphael himself could 
not have imagined a face like this.” 

“No,” said she. “But now I will tell you why I 
wished to have the picture. I read that no one knew 
the artist, nor whom the picture represents. But it is 
very clearly a philosopher of the Middle Ages. Just 
such a picture I wanted for my gallery, for you are 
aware that no one knows the author of the ‘ German 
Theology/ and moreover, that we have no picture of 
him. I wished to try whether the picture of an 
Unknown by an Unknown would answer for our 
German theologian, and if you have no objections 
we will hang it here between the ‘Albigenses ’ and 
the ‘Diet of Worms/ and call it the ‘German The- 
ologian.’ ” 

“Good,” said I; “but it is somewhat too vigorous 
and manly for the Frankforter.” 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 63 

“That may be,” replied she. “But for a suffering 
and dying life like mine, much consolation and 
strength may be derived from his book. I thank 
him much, for it disclosed to me for the first time 
the true secret of Christian doctrine in all its sim- 
plicity. I felt that I was free to believe or disbelieve 
the old teacher, whoever he may have been, for his 
doctrines had no external constraint upon me; at last 
it seized upon me with such power that it seemed to 
me I knew for the first time what revelation was. It 
is precisely this fact that bars so many out from 
true Christianity; namely, that its doctrines confront 
us as revelation before revelation takes place in our- 
selves. This has often given me much anxiety; not 
that I had ever doubted the truth and divinity of our 
religion, but I felt I had no right to a belief which 
others had given me, and that what I had learned 
and received when a child, without comprehending, 
did not belong to me. One can believe for us as 
little as one can live and die for us.” 

“Certainly,” said I ; “therein lies the cause of 
many hot and bitter struggles; that the teachings 
of Christ, instead of winning our hearts gradually 
and irresistibly as they won the hearts of the apostles 
and early Christians, confront us from the earliest 
childhood as the infallible law of a mighty church, 
and demand of us an unconditional submission which 
they call faith. Doubts arise sooner or later in the 


MEMORIES 


64 

breast of every one who has the power of thinking 
and reverence for the truth; and then even when we 
are on the right road, to overcome our faith the ter- 
rors of doubt and unbelief arise and disturb the tran- 
quil development of the new life. 

“I read recently in an English work/’ she inter- 
rupted, “that truth makes revelation, and not revelation 
truth. This perfectly expressed what I found in read- 
ing the ‘German Theology/ I read the book, and 
I felt the power of its truths so overwhelmingly that 
I was compelled to submit to it. The truth was re- 
vealed to me; or rather, I was revealed to myself, 
and I felt for the first time what belief meant. The 
truth which had long slumbered in my soul belonged 
to me, but it was the word of the unknown teacher 
which filled me with light, illuminated my inner 
vision, and brought out my indistinct presentiments 
in fuller clearness before my soul. When I had thus 
experienced for the first time how the human soul 
can believe, I read the Gospels as if they, too, had 
been written by an unknown man, and banished the 
thought as well as I could that they were an inspi- 
ration from the Holy Ghost to the apostles, in some 
wonderful manner; that they had been indorsed by 
the councils and proclaimed by the church as the 
supreme authority of the alone-saving belief. Then, 
for the first time, I understood what Christian faith 
and revelation were/' 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 6 5 

“It is wonderful,” said I, “that the theologians 
have not broken down all religion, and they will suc- 
ceed yet, if the believers do not seriously confront 
them and say: ‘Thus far, but no farther.’ Every 
church must have its servants, but there has been as 
yet no religion which the Priests, the Brahmins, the 
Schamins, the Bonzes, the Lamas, the Pharisees, or 
the Scribes have not corrupted and perverted. They 
wrangle and dispute in a language unintelligible to 
nine-tenths of their congregations, and instead of per- 
mitting themselves to be inspired by the apostles, and 
inspiring others with their inspiration, they construct 
long arguments to show that the Gospels must be 
true, because they were written by inspired men. 
But this is only a makeshift for their own unbelief. 
How can they know that these men were inspired 
in a wonderful manner, without ascribing to them- 
selves a still more wonderful inspiration ? Therefore 
they extend the gift of inspiration to the fathers 
of the church; they attribute to them those very 
things which the majority have incorporated in the 
canons of the councils; and there again, when the 
question arises how we know that of fifty bishops 
twenty-six were inspired and twenty-four were not, 
they finally take the last desperate step, and say that 
infallibility and inspiration are inherent in the heads 
of the church down to the present day, through the 
laying on of hands, so that infallibility, majority, and 


66 


MEMORIES 


inspiration make all our convictions, all resignation, 
all devout intuitions, superfluous. And yet, notwith- 
standing all these connecting links, the first question 
returns in all its simplicity: How can B know that 
A is inspired, if B is not equally, or even more, in- 
spired than A? For it is of more consequence to 
know that A was inspired than for one’s self to be 
inspired.” 

“ I have never comprehended this so clearly 
myself,” said she. “But I have often felt how diffi- 
cult it must be to know whether one loves who 
shows not a sign of love that could not be imitated. 
And again, I have thought that no one could know 
it unless he knew love himself, and that he could 
only believe in the love of another so far as he be- 
lieved in his own love. As with the gift of love so 
is it with the gift of the Holy Spirit. They upon 
whom it descended heard a rushing from heaven 
as of a mighty wind, and there appeared to them 
cloven tongues like as of fire. But the rest were 
either amazed and perplexed, or they made sport of 
them and said: ‘They are full of sweet wine.’ 

“Still, as I said to you, it is the ‘German The- 
ology’ to which I am indebted for learning to believe 
in my belief, and what will seem a weakness to many 
strengthened me the most; namely, that the old 
master never stops to demonstrate his propositions 
rigidly, but scatters them like a sower, in the hope 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 6y 

that some grains will fall upon good soil and bear 
fruit a thousand-fold. So our Divine Master never 
attempted to prove his doctrines, for the perfect con- 
viction of truth disdains the form of a demon- 
stration. ” 

“Yes,” I interrupted her, for I could not help 
thinking of the wonderful chain of proof in Spinoza’s 
‘Ethics,’ “the straining after demonstration by Spi- 
noza gives me the impression that this acute thinker 
could not have believed in his own doctrines with 
his whole heart, and that he therefore felt the neces- 
sity of fastening every mesh of his net with the 
utmost care. Still,” I continued, “I must acknowl- 
edge I do not share this great admiration for the 
‘German Theology,’ although I owe the book many 
a doubt. To me there is a lack of the human and 
the poetical in it, and of warm feeling and reverence 
for reality altogether. The entire mysticism of the 
fourteenth century is wholesome as a preparative, but 
it first reaches solution in the divinely holy and 
divinely courageous return to real life, as was exem- 
plified by Luther. Man must at some time in his 
life recognize his nothingness. He must feel that he 
is nothing of himself, that his existence, his begin- 
ning, his everlasting life, are rooted in the super- 
earthly and incomprehensible. That is the returning 
to God which in reality is never concluded on earth, 
but yet leaves behind in the soul a divine home- 


sickness which never again ceases. But man cannot 
ignore the creation, as the Mystics would. Although 
created out of nothing, that is, through and out of 
God, he cannot of his own power resolve himself 
back into this nothingness. The self-annihilation of 
which Tauler so often speaks is scarcely better than 
the sinking away of the human soul in Nirvana, as 
the Buddhists have it. Thus Tauler says: 4 That 
if he, by greater reverence and love, could reach the 
highest existence in non-existence, he would will- 
ingly sink from his height into the deepest abyss/ 
But this annihilation of the creature was not the 
purpose of the Creator, since he made it. ‘God is 
transformed in man,’ says Augustine, ‘not man in 
God/ Thus mysticism should be only a fire-trial, 
which steels the soul but does not evaporate it like 
boiling water in a kettle. He who has recognized 
the nothingness of self ought to recognize this self 
as a reflection of the actual divine. The ‘German 
Theology * says : 

“ ‘ What has flown out is not real substance, and has no 
other reality except in the perfect ; but it is an incident or 
a glare or a shimmer, which is no substance, and has no 
other reality, except in the fire from which a glare proceeds, 
as in the sun or a light/ 

“What is emitted from the divine, though it be 
only like the reflection from the fire, still has the 
divine reality in itself, and one might almost ask 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 6 9 

what were the fire without glow, the sun without 
light, or the Creator without the creature? These 
are questions of which it is said very truthfully: 

“ ‘ What man or creature desires to learn and to know 
the secret counsel and will of God — desires nothing else 
but what Adam did and the evil spirit.* 

“For this reason, it should be enough for us to 
feel and to appear that we are a reflection of the 
divine until we are divine. No one should place 
under a bushel or extinguish the divine light which 
illuminates us, but let it beam out, that it may 
brighten and warm all about it. Then one feels a 
living fire in his veins, and a higher consecration for 
the struggle of life. The most trivial duties remind 
us of God. The earthly becomes divine, the tem- 
poral eternal, and our entire life a life in God. God 
is not eternal repose. He is everlasting life, which 
Angelus Silesius forgets when he says: ‘God is 
without will/ 

‘We pray : “Thy will, my Lord and God, be done,” 

And lo, He has no will! He is an eternal silence.’” 

She listened to me quietly, and after a moment’s 
reflection, said: “Health and strength belong to 
your faith; but there are life-weary souls, who long 
for rest and sleep, and feel so lonely that when 
they fall asleep in God they miss the world as little 
as the world misses them. It is a foretaste of divine 


7 ° 


MEMORIES 


rest to them when they can wrap themselves in the 
divine; and this they can do, since no tie binds them 
fast to earth, and no wish troubles their heart except 
the wish for rest. 

‘Rest is the highest good, and were God not rest, 
Then would I avert my gaze even from Him.' 

“You do the German theologian an injustice. It 
is true he teaches the nothingness of the external 
life, but he does not wish to see it annihilated. Read 
me the twenty-eighth chapter/’ 

I took the book and read, while she closed her 
eyes and listened: 

“ And when the union takes place in truth and becomes 
real, then the inner man stands henceforth immovable in 
the union, and God permits the outer man to be driven 
hither and thither from this to that. It must and shall be 
and happen, that the outer man says — and is so also in 
truth — ‘I will neither be nor not be, neither live nor die, 
neither know nor not know, neither do nor leave undone — 
and everything which is similar to this, but I am ready and 
obedient to do everything, which must and shall be done, 
be it passively or actively/ And thus has the outer man 
no question or desire but to satisfy only the Eternal Will. 
When this will be known in truth, that the inner man shall 
stand immovable, and that the outer man shall and must 
be moved — the inner man has a why and wherefore of his 
moving, which is nothing but an ‘it must and shall be’ 
ordered by the Eternal Will. And if God himself were 
or is the man, it would be so. This is well seen in Christ. 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 7 i 

And what in the Divine Light is and from the Divine 
Light has neither spiritual pride nor careless license nor an 
independent spirit — but a great humility, and a broken and 
contrite heart — -and all propriety and honesty, justice and 
truth, peace and happiness — all that belongs to all virtues, 
it must have. When it is otherwise, then it is not happy, 
as has been said. When this does not help to this union, 
then there is nothing which may hinder it but man alone 
with his own will, which does him such great harm. That, 
one ought to know.” 

“This is sufficient,” said she; “I believe we 
understand each other now. In another place our 
unknown friend says still more unmistakably that no 
man is passive before death, and that the glorified man 
is like the hand of God, which does nothing of itself 
except as God wills; or like a house in which God 
dwells. A God-possessed man feels this perfectly, 
but does not speak of it. He treasures his life in 
God like a love secret. It often seems to me like 
that silver poplar before my window. It is perfectly 
still at evening, and not a leaf trembles or stirs. 
When the morning breeze rustles and tosses every 
leaf, the trunk with its branches stands still and im- 
movable, and when autumn comes, though every leaf 
which once rustled falls to the ground and withers, 
the trunk waits for a new spring.” 

She had lived so deep a life in her world that I 
did not wish to disturb it. I had but just released 
myself with difficulty from the magic circle of these 


MEMORIES 


7 2 

thoughts, and scarcely knew whether she had not 
chosen the better part which could not be taken 
away from her; while we have so much trouble 
and care. 

Thus every evening brought its new conversation, 
and with each evening some new phase of her fath- 
omless mind disclosed itself. She kept no secret from 
me. Her talk was only thinking and feeling aloud, 
and what she said must have dwelt with her many 
long years, for she poured out her thoughts as freely 
as a child that picks its lap full of flowers and then 
sprinkles them upon the grass. I could not disclose 
my soul to her as freely as she did to me, and this 
oppressed and pained me. Yet how few can, with 
those continual deceptions imposed upon us by society, 
called manners, politeness, consideration, prudence, 
and worldly wisdom, which make our entire life a 
masquerade! How few, even when they would, can 
regain the complete truth of their existence! Love 
itself dares not speak its own language and maintain 
its own silence, but must learn the set phrases of the 
poet and idealize, sigh, and flirt instead of freely 
greeting, beholding, and surrendering itself. I would 
most gladly have confessed and said to her: “You 
know me not/’ but I found that the words were not 
wholly true. Before I left, I gave her a volume of 
Arnold’s poems, which I had had a short time, and 
begged her to read the one called “The Buried 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 73 

Life.” It was my confession, and then I kneeled at 
her couch and said “Goodnight.” “Good night,” 
said she, and laid her hand upon my head, and again 
her touch thrilled through every limb, and the dreams 
of childhood uprose in my soul. I could not go, but 
gazed into her deep unfathomable eyes until the peace 
of her soul completely overshadowed mine. Then 
I arose and went home in silence ; and in the night 
I dreamed of the silver poplar around which the wind 
roared — but not a leaf stirred on its branches. 

THE BURIED LIFE 

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet 
Behold, with tears my eyes are wet; 

I feel a nameless sadness o’er me roll. 

Yes, yes, we know that we can jest; 

We know, we know that we can smile; 

But there’s a something in this breast 
To which thy light words bring no rest. 

And thy gay smiles no anodyne. 

Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, 

And turn those limpid eyes on mine, 

And let me read there, love, thy inmost soul. 

Alas, is even love too weak 
To unlock the heart, and let it speak ? 

Are even lovers powerless to reveal 
To one another what indeed they feel ? 

I knew the mass of men concealed 
Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed 
They would by other men be met 



With blank indifference, or with blame reproved ; 

I knew they lived and moved, 

Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest 
Of men and alien to themselves — and yet, 

The same heart beats in every human breast. 

But we, my love — does a like spell benumb 
Our hearts, our voices ? — must we too be dumb ? 

Ah ! well for us if even we, 

Even for a moment, can yet free 

Our hearts and have our lips unchained ; 

For that which seals them hath been deep ordained. 

Fate which foresaw 

How frivolous a baby man would be, 

By what distractions he would be possessed, 

How he would pour himself in every strife, 

And well-nigh change his own identity. 

That it might keep from his capricious play 
His genuine self, and force him to obey. 

Even in his own despite, his being’s law, 

Bade through the deep recesses of our breast 
The unregarded River of our Life, 

Pursue with indiscernible flow its way ; 

And that we should not see 

The buried stream, and seem to be 

Eddying about in blind uncertainty, 

Though driving on with it eternally. 

But often, in the world’s most crowded streets. 
But often in the din of strife. 

There rises an unspeakable desire 
After the knowledge of our buried life ; 

A thirst to spend our fire and restless force 
In tracking out our true original course ; 











A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 


75 


A longing to inquire 

Into the mystery of this heart that beats 

So wild, so deep, in us ; to know 7 

Whence our thoughts come, and where they go, 

And many a man in his own breast then delves, 

But deep enough, alas, none ever mines ; 

And we have been on many thousand lines, 

And we have shown on each, talent and power, 

But hardly have we, for one little hour, 

Been on our own line, have we been ourselves ; 
Hardly had skill to utter one of all 
The nameless feelings that course through our breast, 
But they course on forever unexpressed, 

And long we try in vain to speak and act 
Our hidden self, and what we say and do 
Is eloquent, is well — but ’tis not true. 

And then we will no more be racked 
With inward striving, and demand 
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour 
Their stupefying power ; 

Ah ! yes, and they benumb us at our call; 

Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, 
From the soul’s subterranean depth upborne. 

As from an infinitely distant land, 

Come airs and floating echoes, and convey 
A melancholy into all our day. 

Only — but this is rare — 

When a beloved hand is laid in ours, 

When, jaded with the rush and glare 
Of the interminable hours, 

Our eyes can in another’s eyes read clear, 

When our world -deafened ear 



7<5 


MEMO 


R I E S 



Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed — 

A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast. 

And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again ; 

The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, 

And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we 
know; 

A man becomes aware of his life’s flow, 

And hears its winding murmur, and he sees 
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. 
And there arrives a lull in the hot race 
Wherein he doth forever chase 
That flying and elusive shadow, Rest. 

An air of coolness plays upon his face, 

And an unwonted calm pervades his breast 
And then he thinks he knows 
The Hills where his life rose, 

And the Sea where it goes 


















r c 
f:oi 

Ol 












emrgi 

ARLY the next 
morning, there was 
a knock at the door, 
and my old doctor, 
the Hofrath, en- 
tered. He was the 
friend, the body and 
soul guardian of our 
entire little village. 
He had seen two 
generations grow 
up. Childrenwhom 
he had brought into 
the world had in 
turn become fathers 
and mothers, and he treated them as his children. 
He himself was unmarried, and even in his old age 
was strong and handsome to look upon. I never 
knew him otherwise than as he stood before me at 
that time; his clear blue eyes gleaming under the 
bushy brows, his flowing white hair still full of 
youthful strength, curling and vigorous. I can 
never forget, also, his shoes with their silver buckles, 
his white stockings, his brown coat, which always 


< So 


MEMORIES 


looked new, and yet seemed to be old, and his cane, 
which was the same I had seen standing by my 
bedside in childhood, when he felt my pulse and 
prescribed my medicines. I had often been sick, 
but it was always faith in this man which made me 
well again. I never had the slightest doubt of his 
ability to cure me, and when my mother said she 
must send for the Hofrath that I might get well again, 
it was as if she had said she must send for the tailor 
to mend my torn trousers. I had only to take the 
medicine, and I felt that I must be well again. 

“How are you, my child ?” said he, as he entered 
the room. “You are not looking perfectly well. 
You must not study too much. But I have little 
time to-day to talk, and only came to tell you you 
must not go to see the Countess Marie again. I have 
been with her all night, and it is your fault. So be 
careful, if her life is dear to you, that you do not go 
again. She must leave here as soon as possible, and 
be taken into the country. It would be best for you 
also to travel for a long time. So good morning, 
and be a good child. ” 

With these words he gave me his hand, looked 
at me affectionately in the eyes, as if he would exact 
the promise, and then went on his way to look after 
his sick children. 

I was so astonished that another had penetrated 
so deeply into the secrets of my soul, and that he 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 81 

knew what I did not know myself, that when I re- 
covered from it he had already been long upon the 
street. An agitation began to seize me, as water, 
which has long been over the fire without stirring, 
suddenly bubbles up, boils, heaves, and rages until it 
overflows. 

Not see her again ! I only live when I am with 
her. I will be calm; I will not speak a word to 
her; I will only stand at her window as she sleeps 
and dreams. But not to see her again! Not to take 
one farewell from her ! She knows not, they cannot 
know, that I love her. Surely I do not love her — 
I desire nothing, I hope for nothing, my heart never 
beats more quietly than when I am with her. But 
I must feel her presence — I must breathe her spirit 
— I must go to her ! She waits for me. Has des- 
tiny thrown us together without design? Ought I 
not to be her consolation, and ought she not to be 
my repose? Life is not a sport. It does not force 
two souls together like the grains of sand in the 
desert, which the sirocco whirls together and then 
asunder. We should hold fast the souls which 
friendly fate leads to us, for they are destined for us, 
and no power can tear them from us if we have 
the courage to live, to struggle, and to die for them. 
She would despise me if I deserted her love at the first 
roll of the thunder, as it were, in the shadow of a tree 
under which I have dreamed so many happy hours. 


82 


MEMORIES 


Then I suddenly grew calm, and heard only the 
words “her love”; they reverberated through all the 
recesses of my soul like an echo, and I was terrified 
at myself. “Her love,” and how had I deserved it? 
She hardly knows me, and even if she could love 
me, must I not confess to her I do not deserve the 
love of an angel ? Every thought, every hope which 
arose in my soul, fell back like a bird, which essays 
to soar into the blue sky and does not see the wires 
which restrain it. And yet, why all this blissfulness, 
so near and so unattainable ? Cannot God work 
wonders? Does He not work wonders every morn- 
ing? Has He not often heard my prayer when it 
importuned him, and would not cease until consola- 
tion and help came to the weary one? These are 
not earthly blessings for which we pray. It is 
only that two souls, which have found and recognized 
each other, may be allowed to finish their brief life- 
journey, arm in arm, and face to face; that I may 
be a support to her in suffering, and that she may be 
a consolation and precious burden to me until we 
reach the end. And if a still later spring were prom- 
ised to her life, if her burdens were taken from her 
— oh, what blissful scenes crowded upon my vision! 
The castle of her deceased mother, in the Tyrol, 
belonged to her. There, on the green mountains, in 
the fresh mountain air, among a sturdy and uncor- 
rupted people, far away from the hurly-burly of the 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 83 

world, its cares and its struggles, its opinion and its 
censure, how blissfully we could await the close of 
life, and silently fade away like the evening-red! 
Then I pictured the dark lake, with the dancing 
shimmer of waves, and the clear shadows of distant 
glaciers reflected in it; I heard the lowing of cattle 
and the songs of the herdsmen ; I saw the hunters with 
their rifles crossing the mountains, and the old and 
young gathering together at twilight in the village; 
and, to crown all, I saw her passing along like an 
angel of peace in benediction, and I was her guide 
and friend. “Poor fool!” I cried out; “poor fool! 
Is thy heart always to be so wild and so weak? Be 
a man. Think who thou art, and how far thou art 
from her. She is a friend. She gladly reflects her- 
self in another’s soul, but her childlike trust and 
candor at best only show that no deeper feeling 
lives in her breast for thee. Hast thou not, on many 
a clear summer’s night, wandering alone through the 
beech groves, seen how the moon sheds its light upon 
all the branches and leaves, how it brightens the 
dark, dull water of the pool and reflects itself clearly 
in the smallest drops? In like manner she shines 
upon this dark life, and thou may’st feel her gentle 
radiance reflected in thy heart, but hope not for a 
warmer glow ! ” 

Suddenly an image approached me as it were 
from life ; she stood before me, not like a memory, 


84 MEMORIES 

but as a vision, and I realized for the first time how 
beautiful she was. It was not that beauty of form 
and face which dazzles us at the first sight of a lovely 
maiden, and then fades away as suddenly as a blossom 
in spring. It was much more the harmony of her 
whole being, the reality of every emotion, the spirit- 
uality of expression, the perfect union of body and 
soul, which blesses him so who looks upon it. The 
beauty which nature lavishes so prodigally does not 
bring any satisfaction, if the person is not adapted to 
it, and as it were deserves and overcomes it. On the 
other hand, it is offensive, as we look upon an actress 
striding along the stage in queenly costume, and 
notice at every step how poorly the attire fits her, 
how little it becomes her. True beauty is sweet- 
ness, and sweetness is the spiritualizing of the gross, 
the corporeal, and the earthly. It is the spiritual 
presence which transforms ugliness into beauty. The 
more I looked upon the vision which stood before 
me, the more I perceived, above all else, the majestic 
beauty of her person and the soulful depths of her 
whole being. Oh, what happiness was near me ! 
And was this all — to be shown the summit of earthly 
bliss and then be thrust out into the flat, sandy wastes 
of existence? Oh, that I had never known what 
treasures the earth conceals! Once to love, and then 
to be forever alone ! Once to believe, and then for- 
ever to doubt! Once to see the light, and then 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 8 5 

forever to be blinded ! In comparison with this rack, 
all the torture-chambers of man are insignificant. 

Thus rushed the wild chase of my thoughts 
farther and farther away, until at last all was silent. 
The confused sensations gradually collected and set- 
tled. This repose and exhaustion they call medita- 
tion, but it is rather an inspection — one allows time 
for the mixture of thoughts to crystallize themselves 
according to eternal laws, and regards the process 
like an observing chemist; and the elements have 
assumed a form, we often wonder that they, as well 
as ourselves, are so entirely different from what we 
expected. 

When I awoke from my abstraction my first 
words were, “ I must away.” I immediately sat 
down and wrote the Hofrath that I should travel for 
fourteen days and submit entirely to him. I easily 
made an excuse to my parents, and at night I was on 
my way to the Tyrol. 














































































































































































. 








. 

. 
















V 


1 




























































































ANDERING arm in 
arm with a friend 
through the valleys 
and over the moun- 
tains of the Tyrol, 
one sips life's fresh 
air and enjoyment; 
but to travel the 
same road solitary 
and alone with your 
thoughts is time and 
trouble lost. Of 
what interest to me 
are the green moun- 
tains, the dark ra- 
vines, the blue lake, and the mighty cataracts? In- 
stead of contemplating them, they look at me and 
wonder among themselves at this solitary being. It 
smote me to the heart that I had found no one in 
all the world who loved me more than all others. 
With such thoughts I awoke every morning, and 
they haunted me all the day like a song which one 
cannot drive away. When I entered the inn at 
night and sat down wearied, and the people in the 



9 o MEMORIES 

room watched me, and wondered at the solitary 
wanderer, it often urged me out into the night 
again, where no one could see I was alone. At a 
late hour I would steal back, go quietly up to my 
room and throw myself upon my hot bed, and 
the song of Schubert would ring through my soul 
until I went to sleep: “Where thou art not is hap- 
piness.” At last the sight of men, whom I continu- 
ally met laughing, rejoicing, and exulting in this 
glorious nature, became so intolerable that I slept by 
day, and pursued my journey from place to place in 
the clear moonlight nights. There was at least one 
emotion which dispelled and dissipated my thoughts: 
it was fear. Let any one attempt to scale mountains 
alone all night long in ignorance of the way — where 
the eye, unnaturally strained, beholds distant shapes 
it cannot solve; where the ear, with morbid acute- 
ness, hears sounds without knowing whence they 
come; where the foot suddenly stumbles, it may be 
over a root which forces its way through the rocks, 
or on a slippery path which the waterfall has drenched 
with its spray; and besides all this, a disconsolate 
waste in the heart, no memory to cheer us, no hope 
to which we may cling — let any one attempt this, 
and he will feel the cold chill of night both out- 
wardly and inwardly. The first fear of the human 
heart arises from God forsaking us ; but life dissipates 
it, and mankind, created after the image of God, 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 9 i 

consoles us in our solitariness. When even this con- 
solation and love, however, forsake us, then we feel 
what it means to be deserted by God and man, and 
* nature with her silent face terrifies rather than con- 
soles us. Even when we firmly plant our feet upon 
the solid rocks, they seem to tremble like the mists 
of the sea from which they once slowly emerged. 
When the eye longs for the light, and the moon 
rises behind the firs, reflecting their tapering tops 
against the bright rock opposite, it appears to us like 
the dead hand of a clock which was once wound up, 
and will some day cease to strike. There is no 
retreat for the soul, which feels itself alone and for- 
saken even among the stars, or in the heavenly 
world itself. One thought brings us a little consola- 
tion: the repose, the regularity, the immensity, and 
the unavoidableness of nature. Here, where the 
waterfall has clothed the gray rocks on either side 
with green moss, the eye suddenly recognizes a blue 
forget-me-not in the cool shade. It is one of mil- 
lions of sisters now blossoming along all the rivulets 
and in all the meadows of earth, and which have 
blossomed ever since the first morning of creation 
shed its entire inexhaustible wealth over the world. 
Every vein in its leaves, every stamen in its cup, 
every fiber of its roots, is numbered, and no power 
on earth can make the number more or less. Still 
more, when we strain our weak eyes, and with super- 








MEMORIES 


human power cast a more searching glance into the 
secrets of nature, when the microscope discloses to 
us the silent laboratory of the seed, the bud, and the 
blossom, do we recognize the infinite, ever-recurring 
form in the most minute tissues and cells, and the 
eternal unchangeableness of Nature’s plans in the 
most delicate fiber. Could we pierce still deeper, 
the same form-world would reveal itself, and the 
vision would lose itself as in a hall hung with mir- 
Such an infinity as this lies hidden in this 


little flower. If we look up to the sky, we see 
again the same system — the moon revolving around 
the planets, the planets around suns, and the suns 
around new suns, while to the straining eye the dis- 
tant star nebulas themselves seem to be a new and 
beautiful world. Reflect, then, how these majestic 
constellations periodically revolve, that the seasons 
may change, that the seed of this forget-me-not may 
shed itself again and again, the cells open, the leaves 
shoot out, and the blossoms decorate the carpet of 
the meadow; and look upon the lady-bug which 
rocks itself in the blue cup of the flower, and whose 
awakening into life, whose consciousness of existence, 
whose living breath, are a thousand-fold more won- 
derful than the tissue of the flower, or the dead 
mechanism of the heavenly * bodies. Consider that 
thou also belongest to this infinite warp and woof, 
and that thou art permitted to comfort thyself with 

fA 









A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 93 

the infinite creatures which revolve and live and dis- 
appear with thee. But if this All, with its smallest 
and its greatest, with its wisdom and its power, with 
the wonders of its existence and the existence of its 
wonders, is the work of a being in whose presence 
thy soul does not shrink back, before whom thou 
fallest prostrate in a feeling of weakness and nothing- 
ness, and to whom thou risest again in the feeling of 
His love and mercy — if thou really feelest that some- 
thing dwells in thee more endless and eternal than 
the cells of the flowers, the spheres of the planets, 
and the life of the insect; if thou recognizest in 
thyself as in a shadow the reflection of the Eternal 
which illuminates thee ; if thou feelest in thyself, 
and under and above thyself, the omnipresence of the 
Real, in which thy seeming becomes being, thy 
trouble, rest, thy solitude, universality — then thou 
knowest the One to whom thou criest in the dark 
night of life: “Creator and Father, Thy will be 
done in Heaven as upon earth, and as on earth so 
also in me.” Then it grows bright in and about 
thee. The daybreak disappears with its cold mists, 
and a new warmth streams through shivering nature. 
Thou hast found a hand which never again leaves 
thee, which holds thee when the mountains tremble 
and the moons are extinguished. Wherever thou 
mayst be, thou art with Him, and He with thee. 
He is the eternally near, and His is the world with 


MEMORIES 


94 

its flowers and thorns, His is man with his joys and 
sorrows. “The least important thing does not hap- 
pen except as God wills it.” 

With such thoughts I went on my way. At one 
time all- was well with me; at another, troubled; 
for even when we have found rest and peace in the 
lowest depths of the soul it is still hard to remain 
undisturbed in this holy solitude. Yes, many forget 
it after they find it, and scarcely know the way which 
leads back to it. 

Weeks had flown, and not a syllable had reached 
me from her. “ Perhaps she is dead and lies in quiet 
rest,” was another song forever on my tongue, and 
always returning as often as I drove it from me. It 
was not impossible, for the Hofrath had told me she 
suffered with heart trouble, and that he expected to 
find her no more among the living every morning 
he visited her. Could I ever forgive myself if she 
had left this world and I had not taken farewell of 
her, nor told her at the last moment how I loved 
her? Must I not follow until I found her again in 
another life, and heard from her that she loved me, 
and that I was forgiven? How mankind defers from 
day to day the best it can do, and the most beautiful 
things it can enjoy, without thinking that every day 
may be the last one, and that lost time is lost eter- 
nity ! Then all the words of the Hofrath, the last 
time I saw him, recurred to me, and I felt that I had 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 95 

only resolved to make my sudden journey to show 
my strength to him, and that it would have been a 
still more difficult task to have confessed my weak- 
ness and remained. It was clear to me that it was 
my simple duty to return to her immediately and 
to bear everything which Heaven ordained. But as 
soon as I had laid the plan for my return journey 
I suddenly remembered the words of the Hofrath : 
“ As soon as possible she must go away and be taken 
into the country.” She had herself told me that she 
spent the most of her time, in summer, at her 
castle. Perhaps she was there, in my immediate 
vicinity ; in one day I could be with her. Thinking 
was doing; at daybreak I was off, and at evening I 
stood at the gate of the castle. 

The night was clear and bright. The mountain 
peaks glistened in the full gold of the sunset, and the 
lower ridges were bathed in a rosy blue. A gray 
mist rose from the valleys, which suddenly glistened 
when it swept up into the higher regions, and then 
like a cloud-sea rolled heavenwards. The whole 
color-play reflected itself in the gently agitated breast 
of the dark lake, from whose shores the mountains 
seemed to rise and fall, so that only the tops of the 
trees and the peaks of the church steeples and the 
rising smoke from the houses defined the limits which 
separated the reality of the world from its reflection. 
My glance, however, rested upon only one spot, the 


MEMORIES 


9 6 

old castle, where a presentiment told me I should 
find her again. No light could be seen in the win- 
dows, no footstep broke the silence of the night. 
Had my presentiment deceived me ? I passed slowly 
through the outer gateway and up the steps, until I 
stood at the forecourt of the castle. Here I saw 
a sentinel pacing back and forth, and I hastened 
to the soldier to inquire who was in the castle. 
“The Countess and her attendants are here,” was the 
brief reply; and in an instant I stood at the main 
portal and had even pulled the bell. Then, for the 
first time, my action occurred to me. No one knew 
me. I neither could nor dare say who I was. I had 
wandered for weeks about the mountains, and looked 
like a beggar. What should I say ? For whom should 
I ask? There was little time for consideration, how- 
ever, for the door opened and a servant in princely 
livery stood before me and regarded me with amaze- 
ment. 

I asked if the English lady, who I knew would 
never forsake the Countess, was in the castle, and 
when the servant replied in the affirmative, I begged 
for paper and ink, and wrote her I was present to in- 
quire after the health of the Countess. 

The servant called an attendant, who took the 
letter away. I heard every step in the long halls, and 
every moment I waited my position became more 
unendurable. The old family portraits of the princely 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 


97 

house hung upon the walls — knights in full armor, 
ladies in antique costume, and in the centre a lady in 
the white robes of a nun, with a red cross upon 
her breast. At any other time I might have looked 
upon these pictures and never thought that a human 
heart once beat in their breasts. But now it seemed 
to me I could suddenly read whole volumes in their 
features, and that all of them said to me: “We also 
have once lived and sufFered. ,, Under these iron 
armors secrets were once hidden as even now in my 
own breast. These white robes and the red cross 
are real proofs that a battle was fought here like that 
now raging in my own heart. Then I fancied all of 
them regarded me with pity, and a loftier haughti- 
ness rested on their features, as if they would say. Thou 
dost not belong to us. I was growing uneasy every 
moment, when suddenly a light step dissipated my 
dream. The English lady came down the stairs and 
asked me to step into an apartment. I looked at 
her closely to see if she suspected my real emotions; 
but her face was perfectly calm, and without mani- 
festing the slightest expression of curiosity or wonder, 
she said in measured tones, the Countess was much 
better to-day and would see me in half an hour. 

When I heard these words, I felt like the good 
swimmer who has ventured far out into the sea, and 
first thinks of returning when his arms have begun 
to grow weary. He cleaves the waves with haste, 


MEMORIES 


98 

scarcely venturing to cast a glance at the distant shore, 
feeling with every stroke that his strength is failing, 
and that he is making no headway, until at last, pur- 
poseless and cramped, he scarcely has any realiza- 
tion of his position'; then suddenly his foot touches 
the firm bottom, and his arm hugs the first rock 
on the shore. A fresh reality confronted me and my 
sufferings were a dream. There are but few such 
moments in the life of man, and thousands have 
never known their rapture. The mother whose 
child rests in her arms for the first time, the father 
whose only son returns from war covered with glory, 
the poet in whom his countrymen exult, the youth 
whose warm grasp of the hand is returned by the be- 
loved being with a still warmer pressure — they know 
what it means when a dream becomes a reality. 

At the expiration of the half-hour, a servant 
came and conducted me through a long suite of rooms, 
opened a door, and in the fading light of the evening 
I saw a white figure, and above her a high window 
which looked out upon the lake and the shimmer- 
ing mountains. 

“ How singularly people meet ! ” she cried out in 
a clear voice, and every word was like a cool rain- 
drop on a hot summer’s day. 

“ How singularly people meet, and how singularly 
they lose each other,” said I ; and thereupon I seized 
her hand, and realized that we were together again. 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 99 

“ But people are to blame if they lose each other,” 
she continued ; and her voice, which seemed always 
to accompany her words like music, involuntarily 
modulated into a tenderer key. 

“Yes, that is true,” I replied; “but first tell me, 
are you well, and can I talk with you?” 

“My dear friend,” said she, smiling, “you know 
I am always sick, and if I say that I feel well, I do 
so for the sake of my old Hofrath ; for he is firmly 
convinced that my entire life since my first year is 
due to him and his skill. Before I left the Court 
residence I caused him much anxiety, for one evening 
my heart suddenly ceased beating, and I experienced 
such distress that I thought it would never beat 
again; but that is past, and why should we recall it? 
Only one thing troubles me. I have hitherto be- 
lieved I should some time close my eyes in perfect 
repose, but now I feel that my sufferings will disturb 
and embitter my departure from life.” Then she 
placed her hand upon her heart, and said: “But tell 
me, where have you been, and why have I not heard 
from you all this time? The old Hofrath has given 
me so many reasons for your sudden departure that 
I was finally compelled to tell him I did not believe 
him — and at last he gave me the most incredible of 
all reasons, and counseled — what do you suppose?” 

“He might seem untruthful,” I interrupted, so 
that she should not explain the reason, “ and yet, per- 


100 


MEMORIES 


haps he was only too truthful. But this also is past, 
and why should we recall it ?” 

“ No, no, my friend/' said she, “ why call it past ? 
I told the Hofrath, when he gave me the last reason 
for your sudden departure, that I understood neither 
him nor you. I am a poor, sick, forsaken be- 
ing, and my earthly existence is only a slow death. 
Now, if Heaven sends me a few souls who under- 
stand me, or love me, as the Hofrath calls it, why 
then should it disturb their joy or mine? I had 
been reading my favorite poet, the old Wordsworth, 
when the Hofrath made his acknowledgment, and I 
said: ‘My dear Hofrath, we have so many thoughts 
and so few words that we must express many thoughts 
in every word. Now, if one who does not know us 
understood that our young friend loved me, or I him, 
in such manner as we suppose Romeo loved Juliet, 
and Juliet Romeo, you would be entirely right in 
saying it should not be so. But is it not true that 
you love me also, my old Hofrath, and that I love 
you, and have loved you for many years ? And has 
it not sometimes occurred to you that I have neither 
been past remedy nor unhappy on that account ? 
Yes, my dear Hofrath, I will tell you still more — 
I believe you have an unfortunate love for me, and 
are jealous of our young friend. Do you not come 
every morning and inquire how I am, even when 
you know I am very well? Do you not bring me 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE ioi 


the finest flowers from your garden? Did you not 
oblige me to send you my portrait, and — perhaps I 
ought not to disclose it — did you not come to my 
room last Sunday, and think I was asleep ? I was 
really sleeping — at least I could not stir myself. I 
saw you sitting at my bedside for a long time, your 
eyes steadfastly fixed upon me, and I felt your glances 
playing upon my face like sunbeams. At last your 
eyes grew weary, and I perceived the great tears fall- 
ing from them. You held your face in your hands, 
and loudly sobbed, ‘ Marie, Marie ! ’ Ah, my dear 
Hofrath, our young friend has never done that, and 
yet you have sent him away/ As I thus talked with 
him, half in jest and half in earnest, as I always speak, 
I perceived that I had hurt the old man’s feelings. 
He became perfectly silent, and blushed like a child. 
Then I took the volume of Wordsworth’s poems 
which I had been reading, and said: ‘Here is another 
old man whom I love, and love with my whole heart, 
who understands me, and whom I understand, and 
yet I have never seen him, and shall never see him 
on earth, since it is so to be. Now, I will read you 
one of his poems, that you may see how one can 
love, and that the love is a silent benediction which 
the lover lays upon the head of the beloved, and 
then goes on his way in rapturous sorrow.’ Then I 
read to him Wordsworth’s ‘Highland Girl’; and now, 
my friend, place the lamp nearer, and read the poem 


102 


MEMORIES 


to me, for it refreshes me every time I hear it. A 
spirit breathes through it like the silent, everlasting 
evening-red, which stretches its arms in love and 
blessing over the pure breast of the snow-covered 
mountains/’ 

As her words thus gradually and peacefully filled 
my soul, it at last grew still and solemn in my breast 
again; the storm was over and her image floated like 
the silvery moonlight upon the gently rippling waves 
of my love — this world-sea which rolls through the 
hearts of all men, and which each calls his own, 
while it is an all-animating pulse-beat of the whole 
human race. I would most gladly have kept silent 
like Nature as it lay before our view without, and 
ever grew stiller and darker. But she gave me the 
book, and I read: 

“ Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
Of beauty is thy earthly dower! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 
Their utmost bounty on thy head : 

And these gray rocks, that household lawn, 

Those trees, a veil just half- withdrawn, 

This fall of water that doth make 
A murmur near the silent lake, 

This little bay, a quiet road 
That holds in shelter thy abode — 

In truth, together do ye seem 

Like something fashioned in a dream ; 

Such forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 


103 

But, O fair creature ! in the light 
Of common day so heavenly bright, 

I bless thee, vision as thou art, 

I bless thee with a human heart; 

God shield thee to thy latest years ! 

Thee neither know I, nor thy peers; 

And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away : 

For never saw I mien or face 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 

Here scattered, like a random seed, 

Remote from men, thou dost not need 
The embarrassed look of shy distress, 

And maidenly shamefacedness: 

Thou wear’st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a mountaineer: 

A face with gladness overspread ! 

Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 

And seemliness complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays; 

With no restraint, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words ofi English speech: 

A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life! 

So have I, not unmoved in mind, 

Seen birds of tempest-loving kind 
Thus beating up against the wind. 




What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful? 

0 happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 

Adopt your homely ways and dress, 

A shepherd, thou a shepherdess : 

But I could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality: 

Thou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea; and I would have 
Some claim upon thee if I could, 

Though but of common neighborhood. 
What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 

Thy elder brother I would be, 

Thy father — anything to thee! 

Now, thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 

Joy have I had; and going hence 

1 bear away my recompense. 

In spots like these it is we prize 
Our memory, feel that she hath eyes : 

Then why should I be loth to stir? 

I feel this place was made for her; 

To give new pleasure like the past. 
Continued long as life shall last. 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 
Sweet Highland Girl, from thee to part; 

For I, methinks, till I grow old, 

As fair before me shall behold, 

As I do now, the cabin small, 

The lake, the bay, the waterfall, 

And thee, the spirit of them all!” 















A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 105 

I had finished, and the poem had been to me 
like a draught of the fresh spring water which I had 
sipped so often of late as it dropped from the cup of 
some large green leaf. 

Then I heard her gentle voice, like the first tone 
of the organ, which wakens us from our dreamy 
devotion, and she said: 

“Thus I desire you to love me, and thus the old 
Hofrath loves me, and thus in one way or another 
we should all love and believe in each other. But the 
world, although I scarcely know it, does not seem to 
understand this love and faith, and on this earth, 
where we could have lived so happily, men have 
made existence very wretched. 

“ It must have been otherwise of old, else how 
could Homer have created the lovely, wholesome, 
tender picture of Nausicaa ? Nausicaa loves Ulysses 
at the first glance. She says at once to her female 
friends : ‘ Oh, that I could call such a man my 
spouse, and that it were his destiny to remain here/ 
She was even too modest to appear in public at the 
same time with him, and she says, in his presence, 
that if she should bring such a handsome and majes- 
tic stranger home, the people would say, she may 
have taken him for a husband. How simple and 
natural all this is! But when she heard that he was 
going home to his wife and children, no murmur 
escaped her. She disappears from our sight, and we 


io6 MEMORIES 

feel that she carried the picture of the handsome and 
majestic stranger a long time afterward in her breast, 
with silent and joyful admiration. Why do not our 
poets know this love — this joyful acknowledgment, 
this calm abnegation? A later poet would have made 
a womanish Werter out of Nausicaa, for the reason 
that love with us is nothing more than the prelude 
to the comedy, or the tragedy, of marriage. Is it 
true there is no longer any other love? Has the foun- 
tain of this pure happiness wholly dried up? Are men 
only acquainted with the intoxicating draught, and no 
longer with the invigorating well-spring of love?” 

At these words the English poet occurred to me, 
who also thus complains: 

“From heaven if this belief be sent, 

If such be nature’s holy plan, 

Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man?” 

“Yet, how happy the poets are,” said she. 
“Their words call the deepest feelings into existence 
in thousands of mute souls, and how often their songs 
have become a confession of the sweetest secrets ? 
Their heart beats in the breasts of the poor and the 
rich. The happy sing with them, and the sad weep 
with them. But I cannot feel any poet so com- 
pletely my own as Wordsworth. I know many of 
my frie'nds do not like him. They say he is not a 
poet. But that is exactly why I like him; he avoids 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 107 

all the hackneyed poetical catch-words, all exaggera- 
tion, and everything comprehended in Pegasus-flights. 
He is true — and does not everything lie in this one 
word? He opens our eyes to the beauty which lies 
under our feet like the daisy in the meadow. He 
calls everything by its true name. He never intends 
to startle, deceive, or dazzle any one. He seeks no 
admiration for himself. He only shows mankind 
how beautiful everything is which man’s hand has 
not yet spoiled or broken. Is not a dewdrop on a 
blade of grass more beautiful than a pearl set in gold ? 
Is not a living spring, which gushes up before us, we 
know not whence, more beautiful than all the foun- 
tains of Versailles? Is not his Highland Girl a love- 
lier and truer expression of real beauty than Goethe’s 
Helena, or Byron’s Haidee? And then the plainness 
of his language, and the purity of his thoughts! Is 
it not a pity that we have never had such a poet? 
Schiller could have been our Wordsworth had he 
had more faith in himself than in the old Greeks and 
Romans. Our Riickert would come the nearest to 
him had he not also sought consolation and home 
under Eastern roses, away from his poor Fatherland. 
Few poets have the courage to be just what they are. 
Wordsworth had it; and as we gladly listen to great 
men, even in those moments when they are not 
inspired, but like other mortals quietly cherish their 
thoughts, and patiently wait the moment that will 


io8 MEMORIES 

disclose new glimpses into the Infinite, so have I also 
listened gladly to Wordsworth himself, in his poems, 
which contain nothing more than any one might 
have said. The greatest poets allow themselves rest. 
In Homer we often read a hundred verses without a 
single beauty, and just so in Dante; while Pindar, 
whom all admire so much, drives me to distraction 
with his ecstasies. What would I not give to spend 
one summer on the lakes; visit with Wordsworth all 
the places to which he has given names; greet all the 
trees which he has saved from the axe; and only 
once watch a far-off sunset with him, which he de- 
scribes as only Turner could have painted.” 

It was a peculiarity of hers that her voice never 
dropped at the close of her talk, as with most people; 
on the contrary, it rose and always ended, as it were, 
in the broken seventh chord. She always talked up, 
never down, to people. The melody of her sentences 
resembled that of the child when it says, “ Can’t I, 
father?” There was something beseeching in her 
tones, and it was well nigh impossible to gainsay her. 

“Wordsworth,” said I, “is a dear poet, and a 
still dearer man to me; and as one often has a more 
beautiful, widespread, and stirring outlook from a 
little hill which he ascends without effort, than when 
he has clambered up Mont Blanc with difficulty and 
weariness, so it seems to me with Wordsworth’s 
poetry. At first he often appeared commonplace to 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE io 9 

me, and I have frequently laid down his poems un- 
able to understand how the best minds of England 
to-day can cherish such an admiration for him. The 
conviction has grown upon me that no poet whom 
his nation, or the intellectual aristocracy of his peo- 
ple, recognize as a poet, should remain unenjoyed 
by us, whatever his language. Admiration is an art 
which we must learn. Many Germans say Racine 
does not please them. The Englishman says, ‘ I do 
not understand Goethe.’ The Frenchman says Shake- 
speare is a boor. What does all this amount to? 
Nothing more than the child who says it likes a 
waltz better than a symphony of Beethoven’s. The 
art consists in discovering and understanding what 
each nation admires in its great men. He who 
seeks beauty will eventually find it, and discover that 
the Persians are not entirely deceived in their Hafiz, 
nor the Hindoos in their Kalidasa. We cannot un- 
derstand a great man all at once. It takes strength, 
effort, and perseverance, and it is singular that what 
pleases us at first sight seldom captivates us any 
length of time.” 

“And yet,” she continued, “there is something 
common to all great poets, to all true artists, to 
all the world’s heroes, be they Persian or Hindoo, 
heathen or Christian, Roman or German; it is — I 
hardly know what to call it — it is the Infinite which 
seems to lie behind them, a far-away glance into the 


IIO 


MEMORIES 


Eternal, an apotheosis of the most trifling and transi- 
tory things. Goethe, the grand heathen, knew the 
sweet peace which comes from Heaven; and when 
he sings 

“‘On every mountain-height 
Is rest. 

O’er each summit white 
Thou feelest 
Scarcely a breath. 

The bird songs are still from each bough; 

Only wait, soon shalt thou 
Rest too, in death’ — 

does not an endless distance, a repose which earth 
cannot give, disclose itself to him above the fir-clad 
summits? This background is never wanting with 
Wordsworth. Let the carpers say what they will, 
it is nevertheless only the super-earthly, be it ever so 
obscure, which charms and quiets the human heart. 
Who has better understood this earthly beauty than 
Michael Angelo? But he understood it, because it 
was to him a reflection of super-earthly beauty. You 
know his sonnet: 

“ c The might of one fair face sublimes my love, 

For it hath weaned my heart from low desires; 

Nor death I heed, nor purgatorial fires. 

Thy beauty, antepast of joys above, 

Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve; 

For, oh ! how good, how beautiful must be 
The God that made so good a thing as thee. 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE in 

So fair an image of the Heavenly Dove. 

Forgive me if I cannot turn away 

From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven. 

For they are guiding stars, benignly given 

To tempt my footsteps to the upward way; 

And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, 

I live and love in God’s peculiar light.’ ” 

She was exhausted and silent, and how could I dis- 
turb that silence ? When human hearts after friendly 
interchange of thoughts feel calmed and quieted, it 
is as if an angel had flown through the room and we 
heard the gentle flutter of wings over our heads. As 
my gaze rested upon her, her lovely form seemed 
illuminated in the twilight of the summer evening, 
and her hand, which I held in mine, alone gave me 
the consciousness of her real presence. Then sud- 
denly a bright refulgence spread over her countenance. 
She felt it, opened her eyes, and looked upon me 
wonderingly. The wonderful brightness of her eyes, 
which the half-closed eyelids covered as with a veil, 
shone like the lightning. I looked around, and at 
last saw that the moon had arisen in full splendor 
between two peaks opposite the castle, and brightened 
the lake and the village with its friendly smiles. 
Never had I seen Nature, never had I seen her dear 
face, so beautiful, never had such holy rest settled 
down upon my soul. “ Marie, ” said I, “in this 
resplendent moment let me, just as I am, confess 


1 12 


MEMORIES 


my whole love. Let us, while we feel so powerfully 
the nearness of the super-earthly, unite our souls in a 
tie which can never again be broken. Whatever 
love may be, Marie, I love you; and I feel, Marie, 
you are mine, for I am thine.” 

I knelt before her, but ventured not to look into 
her eyes. My lips touched her hand and I kissed it. 
At this she withdrew her hand from me, slowly at 
first, and then quickly and decidedly, and as I looked 
at her an expression of pain was on her face. She 
was silent for a time, but at last she raised herself and 
said with a deep sigh : 

“Enough for to-day. You have caused me pain, 
but it is my fault. Close the window. I feel a cold 
chill coming over me, as if a strange hand were 
touching me. Stay with me — but no, you must go. 
Farewell! Sleep well! Pray that the peace of God 
may abide with us. We see each other again — shall 
we not? To-morrow evening I await you.” 

Oh, where all at once had this heavenly rest flown? 
I saw how she suffered, and all that I could do was 
to quickly hurry away, summon the English lady, and 
then go alone in the darkness of night to the village. 
Long time I wandered back and forth about the 
lake, long my gaze strayed to the lighted window 
where I had just been. Finally, the last light in the 
castle was extinguished. The moon mounted higher 
and higher, and every pinnacle and projection and 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE uj 

decoration on the lofty walls grew visible in the 
fairy-like illumination. Here was I all alone in the 
silent night. It seemed to me my brain had refused 
its office, for no thought came to an end, and I only 
felt I was alone on this earth, that it contained no 
soul for me. The earth was like a coffin, the black 
sky a funeral pall, and I scarcely knew whether I was 
living or had long been dead. Then I suddenly 
looked up to the stars with their blinking eyes, which 
went their way so quietly, and it seemed to me that 
they were only for the lighting and consolation of 
men; and then I thought of two heavenly stars which 
had risen in my dark heaven so unexpectedly, and a 
thanksgiving rang through my breast — a thanksgiv- 
ing for the love of my angel. 





















I 


HE sun was already 
looking into my 
window over the 
mountains when 
I awoke. Was it 
the same sun 
which looked up- 
on us the evening 
before with lin- 
gering gaze, like a 
departing friend, 
as if it would bless 
the union of our 
souls, and which 
set like a lost 
hope? It shone 
upon me now like a child which bursts into our room 
with beaming glance to wish us good morning on a 
joyful holiday. And was I the same man who, only a 
few hours before, had thrown himself upon his bed, 
broken in body and spirit? Immediately I felt once 
more the old life-courage and trust in God and myself, 
which quickened and animated my soul like the fresh 
morning breeze. What would become of man without 




MEMORIES 


u 8 

sleep? We know not where this nightly messenger 
leads us; and when he closes our eyes at night who 
can assure us that he will open them again in the 
morning — that he will bring us to ourselves? It 
required courage and faith for the first man to throw 
himself into the arms of this unknown friend ; and 
were there not in our nature a certain helplessness 
which forces us to submission, and compels us to 
have faith in all things we are to believe, I doubt 
whether any man, notwithstanding all his weariness, 
could close his eyes of his own free will and enter 
into this unknown dream-land. The very conscious- 
ness of our weakness and our weariness gives us faith 
in a higher power, and courage to resign ourselves 
to the beautiful system of the All, and we feel 
invigorated and refreshed when, in waking or in 
sleeping, we have loosened, even for a short time 
the chains which bind our eternal Self to our tem- 
poral Ego. 

What had appeared to me only yesterday dark 
as an evening cloud flying overhead, became instantly 
clear. We belonged to one another, that I felt; be 
it as brother and sister, father and child, bridegroom 
and bride, we must remain together now and forever. 
It only concerned us to find the right name for that 
which we, in our stammering speech, call Love. 

“Thy elder brother I would be, 

Thy father — anything to thee.” 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE ng 

It was this “anything” for which a name must be 
found, for the world now recognizes nothing as name- 
less. She had told me herself that she loved me with 
that pure, all-human love, out of which springs all 
other love. Her shuddering, her uneasiness, when I 
confessed my full love to her, were still incompre- 
hensible to me, but it could no longer shatter my 
faith in our love. Why should we desire to under- 
stand all that takes place in other human natures, 
when there is so much that is incomprehensible in 
our own? After all, it is the inconceivable which 
generally captivates us, whether in nature, in man, 
or in our own breasts. Men whom we understand, 
whose motives we see before us like an anatomical 
preparation, leave us cold like the characters in most 
of our novels. Nothing spoils our delight in life and 
men more than this ethic rationalism which insists 
upon clearing up everything, and illuminating every 
mystery of our inner being. There is in every per- 
son a something that is inseparable — we call it fate, 
the suggestive power or character — and he knows 
neither himself nor mankind who believes that he 
can analyze the deeds and^ actions of men without 
taking into account this ever-recurring principle. 
Thus I consoled myself on all those points which 
had troubled me in the evening; and at last no streak 
of cloud obscured the heaven of the future. 

In this frame of mind I stepped out of the close 


120 


MEMORIES 


house into the open air, when a messenger brought 
a letter for me. It was from the Countess, as I saw 
by the beautiful, delicate handwriting. I breath- 
lessly opened it — I looked for the most blissful 
tidings man can expect. But all my hopes were 
immediately shattered. The letter contained only a 
request not to visit her to-day, as she expected a visit 
at the castle from the Court Residence. No friendly 
word, no news of her health, only at the close a 
postscript: “The Hofarth will be here to-morrow 
and the next day.” 

’ Here were two days torn out at once from the 
book of life. If they could only be completely 
obliterated — but no, they hang over me like the 
leaden roof of a prison. They must be lived. I 
could not give them away as a charity to king or 
beggar, who would gladly have sat two days longer 
upon his throne, or on his stone at the church door. 
I remained in this abstraction for a long time; but 
then I thought of my morning prayer, and how I said 
to myself there was no greater unbelief than despon- 
dency — how the smallest and greatest in life are 
part of one great divine plan, to which we must 
submit, however hard it may be. Like a rider who 
sees a precipice before him, I drew in the reins. 
“ Be it so, since it must be ! ” I cried out ; “ but God’s 
earth is not the place for complaints and lamenta- 
tions. Is it not a happiness to hold in my hand 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 121 

these lines which she has written? And is not the 
hope of seeing her again in a short time a greater 
bliss than I have evei deserved? ‘Always keep the 
head above water,’ say all good life-swimmers. As 
well sink at once as allow the water to run into your 
%yes and throat.” If it is hard for us, amid these 
little ills of life, to keep God’s providence continually 
in view, and if we hesitate, perhaps rightly, in every 
struggle to step out of the commonplaces of life into 
the presence of the Divine, then life ought to appear, 
to us at least an art, if not a duty. What is more disa- 
greeable than the child who behaves ungovernably, 
and grows dejected and angry at every little loss and 
pain? On the other hand, nothing is more beautiful 
than the child in whose tearful eyes the sunshine of 
joy and innocence soon beams again, like the flower 
which quivers and trembles in the spring shower, and 
soon after blossoms and exhales its fragrance, as the 
sun dries the tears upon its cheeks. 

A good thought speedily occurred to me, that I 
could live both these days with her, notwithstanding 
fate. For a long time I had intended to write down 
the dear words she said, and the many beautiful 
thoughts she had confided to me; and so the days 
passed away in memory of the many charming hours 
spent together, and in the hope of a still more beau- 
tiful future, and I was by her and with her, and lived 
in her, and felt the nearness of her spirit and her love 


122 


MEMORIES 


more than I had ever felt them when I held her 
hand in mine. 

How dear to me now are these leaves! How 
often have I read and re-read them — not that I 
had forgotten one word she said, but they were the 
witnesses of my happiness, and something looked out 
of them upon me like the gaze of a friend, whose 
silence speaks more than words. The memory of a 
past happiness, the memory of a past sorrow, the 
silent meditation upon the past, when everything dis- 
appears that surrounds and restrains us, when the soul 
throws itself down, like a mother upon the green 
grave-mound of her child who has slept under it 
many long years, when no hope, no desire, disturbs 
the silence of peaceful resignation, we may well call 
sadness, but there is a rapture in this sadness which 
only those know who have loved and suffered much. 
Ask the mother what she feels when she ties upon 
the head of her daughter the veil she once wore as a 
bride, and thinks of the husband no longer with her ! 
Ask a man what he feels when the maiden whom he 
has loved, and the world has torn from him, sends 
him after death the dried rose which he gave her in 
youth! They may both weep, but their tears are 
not tears of sorrow, but tears of joy; tears of sacri- 
fice, with which man consecrates himself to the Di- 
vine, and with faith in God’s love and wisdom, looks 
upon the dearest he has passing away from him. 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 123 

Still let us go back in memory, back in the liv- 
ing presence of the past. The two days flew so 
swiftly that I was agitated, as the happiness of seeing 
her again grew nearer and nearer. As the carriages 
and horsemen arrived on the first day from the city, 
I saw that the castle was alive with gayly dressed 
visitors. Banners fluttered from the roof, music 
sounded through the castle-yard. In the evening the 
lake swarmed with pleasure-boats. The manner- 
chors sounded over the waves, and I could not but 
listen, for T fancied she also listened to these songs 
from the window. Everything was stirring, also, 
on the second day, and early in the afternoon the 
guests prepared for departure. Late in the evening 
I saw the Hofrath’s carriage also going back alone to 
the city. I could not restrain myself any longer. I 
knew she was alone. I knew she thought of me, and 
longed for me. Should I allow one night to pass 
without at least pressing her hand, without saying to 
her that the separation was over, that the next morn- 
ing would waken us to new rapture? I still saw a 
light in her window — why should she be alone? 
Why should I not, for one moment at least, feel her 
sweet presence? Already I stood at the castle; 
already I was about to pull the bell — then suddenly 
I stopped and said: “No! no weakness! You 
should be ashamed to stand before her like a thief in 
the night. Early in the morning go to her like a 


MEMORIES 


124 

hero, returning from battle, for whom she is now 
weaving the crown of love, which she will place 
upon thy head.” 

And the morning came — and I was with her, 
really with her. Oh, speak not of the spirit as if it 
could exist without the body. Complete existence, 
consciousness, and enjoyment can only be where 
body and soul are one — an embodied spirit, a spirit- 
ualized body. There is no spirit without body, else 
it would be a ghost: there is no body without spirit, 
else it would be a corpse. Is the flower in the field 
without spirit? Does it not appear in a Divine will, 
in a creative thought which preserves it, and gives it 
life and existence? That is its soul — only it is silent 
in the flower, while it manifests itself in man by words. 
Real life is, after all, the bodily and spiritual life; 
real consciousness is, after all, the bodily and spirit- 
ual consciousness; real being together is, after all, 
bodily and spiritually being together, and the whole 
world of memory in which I had lived so happily 
for two days, disappeared like a shadow, like a non- 
entity, as I stood before her, and was really with her. 
I could have laid my hands upon her brow, her eyes, 
and her cheeks, to know, to unmistakably know, if it 
were really she — not only the image which had hov- 
ered before my soul day and night, but a being who 
was not mine, and still could and would be mine; a 
being in whom I could believe as in myself; a being 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 125 

far from me and yet nearer to me than my own self; 
a being without whom my life was no life, death 
was no death; without whom my poor existence 
would dissolve into infinity like a sigh. I felt, as my 
thoughts and glances rested upon her, that now, in 
this very instant, the happiness of my existence was 
complete — and a shudder crept over me as I thought 
of death, but it seemed no longer to have any ter- 
ror for me; for death could not destroy this love; it 
would only purify, ennoble, and immortalize it. 

It was so beautiful to be silent with her. The 
whole depth of her soul was reflected in her counte- 
nance, and as I looked upon her I saw and heard her 
every thought and emotion. “You make me sad,” 
she seemed on the point of saying, and yet would 
not. “Are we not together again at last? Be quiet! 
Complain not! Ask not! Speak not! Be welcome 
to me! Be not bad to me!” All this looked from 
her eyes, and still we did not venture to disturb the 
peace of our happiness with a word. 

“ Have you received a letter from the Hofrath ?” 
was the first question, and her voice trembled with 
each word. 

“No,” I replied. 

She was silent for a time, and then said : “ Per- 
haps it is better it has happened thus, and that I can 
tell you everything myself. My friend, we see each 
other to-day for the last time. Let us part in peace, 


126 


MEMORIES 


without complaint and without anger. I feel that I 
have done you a great wrong. I have intruded upon 
your life without thinking that even a light breath 
often withers a flower. I know so little of the world 
that I did not believe a poor suffering being like my- 
self could inspire anything but pity. I welcomed 
you in a frank and friendly way because I had known 
you so long, because I felt so well in your presence 

— why should I not tell all? — because I loved you. 
But the world does not understand or tolerate this 
love. The Hofrath has opened my eyes. The 
whole city is talking about us. My brother, the 
Regent, has written to the Prince, and he requests 
me never to see you again. I deeply regret that I 
have caused you this sorrow. Tell me you forgive me 

— and then let us separate as friends. ,, 

Her eyes had filled with tears, and she closed 
them that I should not see her weeping. 

“ Marie, ” said I, “for me there is but one life, 
which is with you ; but for you there is one will, which 
is your own. Yes, I confess I love you with the 
whole fire of love, but I feel I am not worthily 
yours. You stand far above me in nobility, sub- 
limity, and purity, and I can scarcely understand the 
thought of ever calling you my wife. And yet there 
is no other road on which we could travel through 
life together. Marie, you are wholly free ; I ask for 
no sacrifice. The world is great, and if you wish it. 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE 127 

we shall never see each other again. But if you love 
me, if you feel you are mine, oh, then, let us forget 
the world and its cold verdict. In my arms I will 
bear you to the altar, and on my knees I will swear 
to be yours in life and in death.” 

“My friend,” said she, “we must never wish for 
the impossible. Had it been God’s will that such a 
tie should unite us in this life, would He, forsooth, 
have imposed these burdens upon me which make 
me incapable of being else but a helpless child? Do 
not forget that what we call Fate, Circumstance, 
Relations, in life, is in reality only the work of Prov- 
idence. To resist it is to resist God himself, and 
were it not so childish one might call it pre- 
sumptuous. Men wander on earth like the stars in 
heaven. God has indicated the paths upon which 
they meet, and if they are to separate, they must. 
Resistance were useless, otherwise it would destroy 
the whole system of the world. We cannot under- 
stand it, but we can submit to it. I cannot myself 
understand why my inclination toward you was 
wrong. No! I cannot, will not call it wrong. But 
it cannot be; it is not to be. My friend, this is 
enough — -we must submit in humility and faith.” 

Notwithstanding the calmness with which she 
spoke, I saw how deeply she suffered; and yet I 
thought it wrong to surrender so quickly in this 
battle of life. I restrained myself as much as I could, 


128 MEMORIES 

so that no passionate word should increase her trouble, 
and said: 

“ If this is the last time we are to meet in this 
life, let us see clearly to whom we offer this sacrifice. 
If our love violated any higher law whatsoever, I 
would, as you say, bow myself in humility. It were 
a forgetfulness of God to oppose one’s self to a higher 
will. It may seem at times as if men could delude 
God, as if their small sense had gained some ad- 
vantage over the Divine wisdom. This is frenzy, 
and the man who commences this Titanic battle 
will be crushed and annihilated. But what opposes 
our love? Nothing but the talk of the world. I re- 
spect the customs of human society. I even respect 
them when, as in our time, they are over-refined 
and confused. A sick body needs artificial medi- 
cines, and without the barriers, the respect, and the 
prejudices of society, at which we smile, it were im- 
possible to hold mankind together as at present exist- 
ing, and to accomplish the purpose of our temporal 
co-existence. We must sacrifice much to these divini- 
ties. Like the Athenians, we send every year a 
heavy boat-load of youths and maidens as tribute to 
this monster which rules the labyrinth of our society. 
There is no longer a heart that has not broken ; there 
is no longer a man of true feelings who has not 
been obliged to break the wings of his love before he 
came into the cage of society for rest. It must be 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE i2 9 

so. It cannot be otherwise. You know not life, 
but thinking only of my friends, I can tell you many 
volumes of tragedy. 

“ One loved a maiden, and the love was returned; 
but he was poor, she was rich. The fathers and rela- 
tives wrangled and sneered, and two hearts were 
broken. Why? Because the world looked upon it 
as a misfortune for a woman to wear a dress made of 
the wool of a shrub in America, and not of the fibers 
of a worm in China. 

“ Another loved a maiden, and was loved in 
return; but he was a Protestant, she was a Catholic. 
The mothers and the priests bred mischief, and two 
hearts were broken. Why ? On account of a politi- 
cal game of chess which Charles V. and Henry VIII. 
played together three hundred years ago. 

“ A third loved a maiden, and was loved in 
return; but he was a noble, she a peasant. The sis- 
ters were angry, and quarreled, and two hearts were 
broken. Why? Because a hundred years ago one 
soldier slew another in battle who threatened the 
life of his king. This gave him title and honors, 
and his great-grandson expiated the blood shed at 
that time with a disappointed life. 

“The statisticians say a heart is broken every 
hour, and I believe it. But why? In almost every 
case, because the world does not recognize love be- 
tween ‘strange people,’ unless it be between man and 


MEMORIES 


130 

wife. If two maidens love the same man — the one 
must fall as a sacrifice. If two men love the same 
maiden, one or both must fall as a sacrifice. Why ? 
Cannot one love a maiden without wishing to marry 
her? Cannot one look upon a woman without de- 
siring her for his own? You close your eyes, and I 
feel I have said too much. The world has changed 
the most sacred things in life into the most com- 
mon. But, Marie, enough ! Let us talk the lan- 
guage of the world when we must talk, and act in 
it and with it. But let us preserve a sanctuary where 
two hearts can speak the pure language of the heart, 
undisturbed by the raging of the world without. 
The world itself honors this seclusion, this coura- 
geous resistance, which noble hearts, conscious of 
their own rectitude, oppose to the ordinary course of 
things. The attentions, the amenities, the prejudices 
of the world are like a climbing plant. It is pleas- 
ant to see an ivy, with its thousand tendrils and roots, 
decorating the solid wall-work; but it should not be 
allowed too luxuriant growth, else it will penetrate 
every crevice of the structure, and destroy the cement 
which welds it together. Be mine, Marie; follow 
the voice of your heart. The word which now 
hangs upon your lips decides forever your life and 
mine — my happiness and yours.” 

I was silent. The hand I held in mine returned 
the warm pressure of the heart. A storm raged in 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 131 

her breast, and the blue heaven before me never 
seemed so beautiful as now, while the storm swept 
by, cloud upon cloud. 

“ Why do you love me?” said she, gently, as if 
she must still delay the moment of decision. 

“ Why, Marie ? Ask the child why it is born ; 
ask the flower why it blossoms; ask the sun why it 
shines. I love you because I must love you. But if I 
am compelled to answer further, let this book, lying 
by you, which you love so much, speak for me : 

“ c The best should be the most loved, and in this love 
there should be no consideration of advantage or disad- 
vantage, gain or loss, honor or dishonor, praise or blame, 
or anything else, but that which in reality is the noblest and 
best, which should be the dearest of all; and for no other 
reason but because it is the noblest and best. According 
to this a man should plan his inner and outer life. From 
without: if among mankind there is one better than another, 
in proportion as the eternally good shines or works more in 
one than in another. That being in whom the eternally 
good shines, works, is known and loved most, is therefore 
the best among mankind; and in whom this is most, there 
is also the most good. As now a man has intercourse with 
a being, and apprehends this distinction, then the best being 
should be the dearest to him, and he should fervently cling 
to it, and unite himself with it. . . . .’ 

“ Because you are the most perfect creature that 
I know, Marie, therefore I am good to you, there- 
fore you are dear to me, therefore we love each other. 


MEMORIES 


132 

Speak the word which lives in you, say that you are 
mine. Deny not your innermost convictions. God 
has imposed a life of suffering upon you. He sent 
me to bear it with you. Your sorrow shall be my 
sorrow, and we will bear it together, as the ship bears 
the heavy sails which guide it through the storms of 
life into the safe haven at last.” 

She grew more and more silent. A gentle flush 
played upon her cheeks like the quiet evening gleam. 
Then she opened her eyes full — the sun gleamed all 
at once with marvellous luster. 

“I am yours,” said she. “God wills it. Take 
me just as I am; so long as I live I am yours, and 
may God bring us together again in a more beautiful 
life, and recompense your love.” 

We lay heart to heart. My lips closed the lips 
upon which had just now hung the blessing of my 
life, with a gentle kiss. Time stood still for us. 
The world about us disappeared. Then a deep sigh 
escaped from her breast. “ May God forgive me 
for this rapture,” she whispered. “Leave me alone 
now, I cannot endure more. Auf wiedersehen ! my 
friend, my loved one, my savior.” 

These were the last words I ever heard from her. 
But no — I had reached home, and was lying upon 
my bed in troubled dreams. It was past midnight 
when the Hofrath entered my room. “Our angel 
is in Heaven,” said he; “here is the last greeting 


A STORT OF GERMAN LOVE 133 

she sends you.” With these words he gave me a 
letter. It inclosed the ring which she had given 
me, and I once had given her, with the words, “As 
God wills A It was wrapped in an old paper, whereon 
she had some time written the words I spoke to her 
when a child, “What is thine, is mine. Thy Marie.” 

Hours long we sat together without speaking. It 
was a spiritual swoon which Heaven sends us when 
the load of pain becomes greater than we can bear. 
At last the old man arose, took my hand and said: 
“We see each other to-day for the last time, for you 
must leave here, and my days are numbered. There 
is but one thing I must say to you — a secret which 
I have carried all my life and confessed to no one. 
I have always longed to confess it to some one. Listen 
to me. The spirit which has left us was a beautiful 
spirit, a majestic, pure soul, a deep, true heart. I 
knew one spirit as beautiful as hers — still more beau- 
tiful. It was her mother. I loved her mother, and 
she loved me. We were both poor, and I struggled 
with life to obtain an honorable position both on her 
account and my own. The young Prince saw my 
bride and loved her. He was my Prince; he loved 
her ardently. He was ready to make any sacrifice, 
and to elevate her, the poor orphan, to the rank of 
Princess. I loved her so that I sacrificed the happi- 
ness of my love for her. I forsook my native land, 
and wrote her I would release her from her vow. I 


MEMORIES 


i34 

never saw her again, except on her deathbed. She 
died in giving birth to her first daughter. Now you 
know why I loved your Marie, and prolonged her 
life from day to day. She was the only being that 
linked my heart to this life. Bear life as I have 
borne it. Lose not a day in useless lamentation. Help 
mankind whenever you can. Love them, and thank 
God that you have seen and known and loved on this 
earth such a human heart as hers — and that you 
have lost it.” 

“As God wills” said I, and we parted for life. 

And days and weeks and months and years have 
flown. Home is a stranger to me, and a foreign land 
is my home. But her love remains with me, and as 
a tear drops into the ocean, so has her love dropped 
into the living ocean of humanity, and pervades and 
embraces millions — millions of the “strange peo- 
ple” whom I have so loved from childhood. 

Only on quiet summer days like this, when one 
in the green woods has nature alone at heart, and 
knows not whether there are human beings without, 
or he is living entirely alone in the world, then there 
is a stir in the graveyard of memory, the dead thoughts 
rise again, the full omnipotence of love returns to 
the heart and streams out from that beautiful being 
who once looked upon me with her deep unfathom- 


A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE i 35 

able eyes. Then it seems as if the love for the 
millions were lost in the love for the one, my good 
angel, and my thoughts are dumb in the presence 
of the incomprehensible enigma of endless and 
everlasting love. 























































































































































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PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY 
AND SONS COMPANY, AT THE 
LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL. 













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